


The Laws of the World

by kissteethstainred



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst AF, Blood and Injury, Bonding, Discussions of marriage, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Karen Jackson/Mandy Milkovich sidepair, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mentions of past self-harm, No Smut, No one actually dies!, Past Child Abuse, Soul Bond, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4435268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissteethstainred/pseuds/kissteethstainred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey was pretty comfortable with his life: he got used to Ian being a superhero, running around, saving lives, and then coming home to Mickey. The only rule Mickey had was that, while he was a super, he wouldn’t be a hero—until one favor from Ian changes everything. </p><p>With the emergence of a new villain that seems to like to play with their victims, Mickey slowly becomes more and more rooted in hero life and the dangers that come with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Laws of the World

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank Ellie @mickeysupset for being both a great cheerleader and artist for this fic, she was always excited for everything that I was doing. The artwork can be found [here](http://mickeysupset.tumblr.com/post/125368324403/the-superheroes-of-the-law-of-the-world-by) and [here](http://mickeysupset.tumblr.com/post/125368970008/whether-the-bond-actually-exists-or-not-i-suppose) :))))
> 
> I also want to thank/shout out to the Big Bang for being hosted and awesome, it was seriously fun (and grueling) to do this, but it's been an enjoyable ride. Also thanks to every other participant in the Big Bang who wrote fic or made art because it's made this all so great. 
> 
> some terminology for this fic:  
> super: someone who has superpowers but doesn't use them to fight crime (aka a hero)  
> hero: someone who has superpowers but uses them to fight crime  
> eximologist: someone who studies super powers
> 
> and lastly: i tagged this for major character death even though no one dies, but you'll understand why when you read the fic. i just wanted to be sure. also, even though it's only mentioned in passing, i did fall into the horrible idea that bipolar people are suicidal. i understand that this isn't always the case and is a misrepresentation.

“A hero doesn’t know they have to be a hero until they get hit.”

-George Foreman

* * *

**part i. superpower (a subtle power)**

_“when the palm of my two hands hold each other that feels different from when your hands are in mine; that’s just the way it is”_

* * *

 When Mickey called Ian and he didn’t answer, Mickey turned on the TV to see the news.

Channel Eight didn’t have anything worthy on, News Tonight didn’t have anything on superheroes, and finally Mickey found out what was happening on Chicago Story. There was a bank robbery downtown, a couple of hostages taken, and a police team surrounding the building.

Ah, Mickey had gotten that wrong. A very _angry_ police team because they couldn’t get inside, but two superheroes could. They had no eyes or ears, but there were two superheroes inside and doing _their_ job.

Mickey just didn’t see how Ian fit into all of this. He dialed Ian’s number a second time.

“Hey,” Ian answered, sounding out of breath. “I thought it was you.”

“You thought it was me and you didn’t answer?” Mickey asked, watching the camera on the news zoom in on the front doors.

“Funny,” Ian said. There was a loud, sharp snapping sound, like metal wrenching. Mickey cringed. “You _know_ I’m busy.”

“Tell me again, how does super strength relate to a bank robbery?”

“Someone has to break the locks they put on the inside of the doors, Mickey.”

“Which is what you’re doing right now?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re about to go into a room full of hostages and bad guys?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I should hang up now, shouldn’t I?”

“Yup,” Ian said cheerfully. “Oh! And don’t forget, dinner with my family at five. You know what that means?”

“Be there at four, I know. It’s been years, Ian, I got down the routine by now.”

“Don’t be late or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Don’t you have someone else’s ass to kick right now?”

“ _Four_ , Mickey.”

“Alright.” There was a loud crack on the other side of the phone, some glass shattering and falling to the ground. “Be safe,” Mickey warned, unable to help himself. Ian had been a superhero for over two years now, and Mickey still got nerves bugging him whenever he thought too hard about Ian doing this.

“Of course. Love you,” Ian said, and he hung up. Mickey watched the news again, camera panning in on the officer’s faces. He checked the clock, a big grandfather clock, and it read 2:45. Mickey sighed, turned off the TV, and went into the bedroom to change his clothes. It was gonna be a long night, and he had to get ready to go to the Gallagher house.

-

Sometimes it seemed so unreal, what Ian was actually doing while he was away. Mickey knew that Ian was out fighting crime and Supreme Bad Guys and whatnot, but sometimes Mickey just forgot about it. To Mickey, Ian wasn’t The Might—a name Mickey still laughed at—or even “the one with super strength,” he was just _Ian_. Ian liked touching Mickey at all times while he slept, he couldn’t have any type of bread two days in a row for breakfast, and he geeked out over movies and TV shows. Ian worked at a highly-acclaimed magazine-slash-newspaper, writing for the reviews column for entertainment, and he had a flexible enough schedule that he could be a superhero as long as he got his articles in on time.

Sometimes Mickey saw someone on the news, with blood dripping down their face and saying, “If The Might hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened to me,” and he recognized the Ian he knew. And yet Mickey also couldn’t reconcile that Ian with the one that gave Mickey this _look_ every time they pass by the pet store or had to hold Mickey’s hand the entire time they watch any scary movie.

Alright, maybe it was Mickey who had to hold Ian’s hand the entire scary movie, but hey, he wasn’t the one fighting real-life bad guys.

It was a strange melding of worlds, one where both Ian and Mickey had powers, but Ian was a hero and Mickey was only a super. So Mickey understood the powers, and he understood having to conceal them, but it was the fighting he never understood.

And that was a lie, too, but somehow, in his head, he’d separated fighting his father and fighting bad guys. Fighting his father was for his own survival, maybe Mandy’s—fighting bad guys was for other people’s safety, random strangers, “ _Innocent citizens_ ,” Ian always said.

Ian had asked Mickey about it once, when Ian had begun to go and stop crime himself. They’d had many fights about it, because Mickey didn’t want Ian to get hurt, but Mickey didn’t have any say, really, in how Ian used his powers. There had been a small offer made by Ian, almost off-hand and hesitant, to have Mickey come and be a hero too, but Mickey had rejected it. So Ian had registered with the Department of Heroes, and Mickey had supported Ian after that. Mickey himself never had any desire to be the savior type, and he’d live it through Ian.

Maybe more than he thought. Ian would come home from a particular case, scratched up and shot at and bleeding, and Mickey would hold Ian in his arms and heal Ian. He’d touched his fingers to Ian’s skin and closed up wounds, held Ian at night and heard his bones grind back into place. Mickey wasn’t out there in the city, actively fighting, but he knew exactly how Ian’s pain felt as Mickey fixed it.

Sometimes Mickey felt guilty about it—a healing ability like his was rare, and using it only for Ian probably wasn’t the best idea—but he knew that he would be in demand a lot, and Mickey couldn’t afford that. His power wasn’t infinite.

After a while, Mickey had realized that he was content with it, the whole _Ian is a hero_ thing. Lip joined the government in something Mickey technically wasn’t allowed to know, but Lip had just molded it down to “I build really awesome technological shit.” It’s how Mickey can call Ian—how any of the heros can communicate with each other, an advanced earpiece that Lip designed to function at all times by jumping wavelengths at such a speed that it went unnoticed—and how Lip can help the other heroes out when they need technology, not powers. Lip joined the government and suddenly Mickey could talk to Ian while Ian was on the job (or coming out of it), Lip could build better defenses in Ian’s suit, and Mickey felt that Ian was a bit closer, a bit safer than before.

It also eased the tensions between Lip and Mickey. Ian said he found that more relieving than Lip putting in more armor in his suit, and Mickey and Lip purposefully antagonized Ian for a week just because he said that.

Lip, right now, was talking excitedly to Debbie as she moved around the kitchen. He was talking to her about some type of science thing—he’d started on photosynthesis, and Mickey wasn’t exactly sure how that related to the pattern of the soles of Bolt’s sneakers—and Debbie kept jumping in with different questions. Carl was interrogating Fiona’s new boyfriend, Steve, in the living room, and Fiona was nervously standing by, fluttering between their conversation and Liam. Mickey leaned back against the counter, sipping his beer, and refrained from looking at his watch. He knew he’d only checked it a couple of minutes ago.

“But the shoes can’t really help him, can they?” Debbie asked. She pushed some stray hairs away from her face. “I mean, Bolt has super speed no matter what. Fancy sneakers won’t help him go any faster.”

“How can you say that? How can you believe that powers are the end result?” When Lip got excited about his topics, he started asking questions and then answered them himself. He also waved his hands around a lot. Mickey sniggered when he saw some beer splatter on Lip’s shoes from his eccentric hand-waving. “Powers can’t exist by themselves, just as technology can’t. But together! They enhance each other through a mutualistic relationship.”

Debbie groaned and turned to Mickey. “You don’t believe this, do you? If we had all the technology, we wouldn’t need supers at all, and they wouldn’t keep popping up.”

Mickey frowned. “I thought they couldn’t prove how powers come about.”

Lip made a very excited noise, clapped his hands together, and said, “Exactly! There’s still so much more scientific study that we need to do.”

“Then why are we even having this conversation?”

And so on.

Mickey heard the door behind him open, and he turned his head to see Ian walking in. “You’re late,” Mickey told him, taking another sip of his beer. “What happened to four?”

Ian rolled his eyes, closing the door. “I was kind of busy,” Ian replied, coming over to Mickey and kissing him. Mickey leaned into the kiss, felt his power flow into Ian, and pulled away.

“Are you hurt?” Mickey asked, making sure to keep his voice low. If there was one thing that Ian hated, it was his family overreacting to Ian being a hero. Mickey could feel it, the small ache in Ian’s health, the way his body was responding. It took Mickey a moment to realize what was wrong. “You’re cut,” Mickey said.

Ian stole Mickey’s beer and waved his hand. “Just some glass that shattered,” he said after taking a sip.

“Shattered glass?”

“Because of the bullets.”

“ _Bullets_?”

“Mickey,” Ian warned, casting a nervous glance over at his family.

“Alright, alright, I’ll back down.” Mickey stole his beer back, raising an eyebrow at Ian when Ian sighed. Mickey pressed closer to Ian’s side, sliding his arm around Ian’s waist. “Will you at least let me fix it?” he asked. Ian nodded, so Mickey turned and pressed his mouth to Ian’s neck, right above the collar of Ian’s shirt, and let his power flow into Ian. It was easier to heal Ian than it was to heal others, not that Mickey had healed a lot of other people before. But generally, with other people, he had to be touching them to feel that they were hurt in the first place. With Ian, he could just recognize it without touch. He did have to be touching Ian to heal him, but it was almost as if his powers liked healing Ian the most.

If his powers actually had feelings, it would only have two emotions: revulsion and happiness. When Mickey felt someone’s wounds, his powers recognized them and were revolted at the pain and destruction, but then equally happy to fix everything. His powers would flow into whoever it was and help fix the problem, encouraging cells and immune responses and more to work faster. His powers _liked_ it. Sometimes Mickey felt as if his powers were this living being inside of him that got impatient if it didn’t fix someone after a period of time, as if it knew people were hurt and was upset that Mickey wasn’t doing something about it.

Something was special about Ian, though. His powers seemed to like Ian, liked to curl protectively around him. Even if Ian wasn’t hurt, his powers would surge through Ian before resting in him, content that Ian was safe and healed. It was worse on days where Mickey was emotional—nervous or panicked because Ian was out there saving people but he wasn’t answering Mickey’s calls, or Mickey saw on the news that Ian was hurt—and when Ian returned home, his powers would almost rush out of Mickey, uncontrollable. It was entirely strange to Mickey—not that he minded, because he felt the same as his powers—but it was still strange that he and his powers still had different feelings. That Mickey could _recognize_ that they had different feelings.

Mickey felt the small cuts on Ian’s body heal and close over and pulled his mouth away from Ian’s skin, although he stayed where he was. Ian murmured a small, “Thanks,” circling his arms around Mickey’s waist. “Did I miss anything important?” Ian asked.

“Fiona’s got a new boyfriend,” Mickey said, pointing to where Steve was still talking to Carl.

Ian frowned. “Is that who that is?”

“Name’s Steve.”

Ian snorts. “Fuck kinda name is Steve?”

“Probably an asshole,” Mickey said, grinning when Ian laughed. “He kinda had a pretentious vibe. You know how I feel about pretentious people.”

“Yeah, you wanna beat them up.” Ian took another sip of Mickey’s beer. “I don’t know how you didn’t punch Lip.”

“I did, I just healed him before any of you could see,” Mickey replied. When Ian shot him a concerned look, Mickey laughed. It wasn’t true—Mickey had always forced himself to resist—but Ian’s face was hilarious. Before Mickey could reassure Ian, Carl walked over with Steve.

“You must be Ian,” Steve said, holding out his hand. Ian stared at it for a second before reaching his hand out and shaking Steve’s hand. Mickey tried not to laugh, coughing into Ian’s shoulder instead. Carl grinned at him, rolling his eyes like _I know_. “Fiona mentioned you might be late.”

“Yeah, work was holding me up,” Ian said. There was always something tense around Fiona or Lip’s partners, because they didn’t know Ian was a hero and they all had to keep quiet about it. It was one of the top Gallagher rules: you do not say anything about Ian being a hero. Fuck, don’t even mention that Ian is a super. Society was on a weird turn these days. With the emergence of more heroes and what were deemed “villains,” the public was beginning to get scared of supers in general. There had been reports of harassment of kids at schools for being a super, some violence erupting. Last political election there had even been talk of having every super register with the government, but thankfully it hadn’t been passed.

“Oh?” Steve said. “What do you do?”

“I work for an entertainment magazine,” Ian said. “I do reviews on TV and movies, stuff like that.” He took another sip of beer. Mickey should be watching that—Ian couldn’t have a lot on his meds. “You?”

“I work for a car company,” Steve said.

“And I work for an accounting agency, Carl works for a convenience store a couple blocks over, and Debbie works at _Claire’s_ at the local mall,” Mickey interrupted. Steve gave Mickey a surprised look. “I don’t like small talk,” Mickey explained, shrugging, and then, “I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Mickey, Ian’s partner.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “I could tell,” he said, nodding at Ian’s arm around his waist. The gesture seemed arrogant for some reason, and thankfully Fiona called Steve into the living room to meet Kev and Vee because Mickey was surely gonna say something snappish back.

“Calm,” Ian whispered in Mickey’s ear. Mickey muttered a “yeah, yeah,” and stole his beer back from Ian again.

“I don’t like him,” Carl said, leaning against the counter. He glanced at the beer in Mickey’s hand, and before Mickey knew it, his beer was zooming out of Mickey’s hand and into Carl’s.

“ _Carl_ ,” Ian snapped. He glanced worriedly to the living room, where Steve was talking to Kev. “Not when other people are here, remember?”

Carl nodded. “I think I’m getting better at it, though,” he said. “I can summon heavier things now without having to do the dumb hold out your hand shit.” Carl had some weird type of telekinesis where he could summon things to him. All the Gallaghers had some type of power: Ian had strength, Lip had his brain, Carl had the summoning, Fiona could multitask (it was a joke among the Gallaghers that it wasn’t a true superpower but Fiona just laughed and said, “You do know humans can’t technically multitask? And I can, so it’s a power”), and Debbie had what everyone jokingly called “friendship” because she could get anyone to like her. Liam hadn’t shown anything yet, but no one doubted that he wouldn’t get one.

“It’s something in the water,” Ian had whispered to Mickey once, and Mickey had snorted and elbowed him in the side.

“Just be careful,” Ian said to Carl.

“Says the _hero_ ,” Carl responded. When Ian cuffed him on the back of the head, Carl rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m always careful, okay?”

Kev and Vee finally made their way into the kitchen, so Mickey detached himself to let them converse with Ian. He made his way over to where Lip was fiddling with the stereo. “Can’t get it to work?” Mickey asked.

Lip frowned. “I’ve forced this stereo to work for the last eight years, it’s not gonna die on me now.” He pressed the play button a couple more times, and music filtered out of it, staticky and hoarse. “What the fuck?” Lip muttered, moving the stereo so he could peer at it.

“Let me help,” Mickey said. Lip moved back to make room, and Mickey smacked the stereo hard on the side. The music skipped for a moment before playing out of the speakers clearly, static gone. Lip stared at the stereo in surprise and then just shook his head. “Can’t fix everything, huh?” Mickey said.

“Can you heal everything?” Lip asked. He took out a cigarette, searched through his pocket for a lighter and came up empty. Mickey reached into his own pocket, gave his own lighter to Lip, and Lip took it gratefully.

“No,” Mickey said. “At least, I don’t know. I haven’t tried to heal everything.”

“Yeah, but, you can’t heal fucking cancer or whatever,” Lip argued, words muffled slightly by the cigarette in his mouth. He handed the lighter back to Mickey.

Mickey shrugged. “Maybe I can,” he said. “It would just be a long process.”

“Alright, well, you have to have some limit,” Lip said. “And I have limits too. Intelligence isn’t everything. _Powers_ aren’t everything.” Lip blew some smoke out of his nose. “For the record, I’m smart without my power too.”

“I never asked,” Mickey said. For some reason he liked this small verbal sparring he and Lip did. It was never enough for them to truly hate each other, but it felt fun, always poking at each other slightly. Sometimes it made Mickey feel better, as if he’d just vented or yelled, only . . . in a intellectual conversation instead.

Usually, Lip won.

“Well, I am,” Lip continued. “I know my own limits. I know the difference between my own brain and my powers. You know?” Mickey nodded because he did understand, that separation between his powers and himself. He let his hand brush Lip’s, and for a second he could feel it, the burn in Lip's lungs from the cigarette, the scream of Lip's body against something so toxic and yet craving it at the same time. Mickey pulled away. He was glad that Ian made him quit all those years ago. “It’s close to what I was saying earlier,” Lip said. “Like, my own intelligence can’t do it all, and neither can my powers do it alone. They have to work together, so they can enhance each other.”

“Alright, say that’s true,” Mickey said. “How would you enhance my powers?”

Lip paused and then let out a short laugh. “I have no fucking idea.” He started laughing harder, and Mickey couldn’t help but join in.

Fiona called them to the dinner table. Mickey raised an eyebrow at Steve when Steve almost sat in his seat, and he could hear Debbie and Carl snickering at the other end. Steve ended up sitting between Mickey and Vee. Steve looked a bit surprised by all of the conversation going around, especially since it was so loud and it all overlapped. Eventually Steve just turned to Mickey and began conversation, which Mickey tolerated politely. The conversation was going well until Steve asked, “So, how did you and Ian meet?”

Mickey stiffened, sitting back in his chair a little. “In college,” he said curtly, hoping it would end that topic.

“Did you share a class?” Steve asked.

Mickey could still see how red the blood looked on floor, how starkly it contrasted the white tile in his memories. “ _No_ ,” Mickey said, harsher than his earlier tone. Hopefully it said _end of fucking discussion_. “Tell me about your car business.”

Steve seemed unprepared for the abrupt change of topic, but he accepted it after a moment. “It’s going well,” he said. “I was telling Lip earlier about this new model we’d added into our car—it allows the person to basically put the car in autodrive—and they’ve worked fairly well from the models we’ve tested.”

“People are actually interested in that?” Mickey asked.

Steve shrugged. “My father recently bought a couple models from me, wanted to see how it worked and how efficient it is.”

“Well, as long as Daddy approves,” Mickey said, smiling at Steve in a snide manner. Mickey was pleased to see Steve’s smile fade, and he knew he’d struck a nerve. Mickey felt Ian’s hand on his thigh, and Mickey turned to him, leaving Steve to himself. “What?” Mickey asked.

Ian just smiled and rubbed his foot along Mickey’s, trying to soothe Mickey's anger. Mickey glanced at Ian, who was smiling and nodding at what Debbie was saying, but Mickey felt Ian’s foot rub along his again. Mickey decided to allow Ian continue to do it, and he let Kev pull him into a conversation about the upcoming hockey game.

-

Ian called Lip’s old room and promptly pushed Mickey into the room. Lip scowled in the doorway. “That was _my_ room,” Lip said.

“You’re joking if you think Mickey and I are gonna fit on my old bed,” Ian said. “Go on, Lip, relive your high school days.”

Lip rolled his eyes but went to the other room, and Ian slid the door closed. He sighed, leaned against the dresser. “I’m fucking beat,” Ian said, pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it to the side. Mickey motioned to Ian to come to Mickey on the bed, and Ian climbed into Mickey’s lap. Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist, trailed his fingers lightly over Ian’s bare skin, and could feel the lack of energy in Ian’s body, the weariness.

“Your family is very energy-draining,” Mickey said, voice muffled by Ian’s collarbone. Ian laughed into Mickey’s hair and pressed a kiss to the crown of Mickey’s head.

“You didn’t have to grow up with them,” Ian said lightly. _No, but I had to grow up with mine_ , Mickey thought. Ian’s fingers pulled at the bottom of Mickey’s shirt, so Mickey let Ian pull the shirt over his head. It messed up the back of Mickey’s hair, and Ian reached out and flattened it with his fingers.

“I think it’s because they’re so direct,” Mickey said. “Carl and Debbie aren’t afraid to ask questions, and god forbid Lip doesn’t get direct results.”

“Hmm.” Ian’s fingers kept twisting in Mickey’s hair, lulling Mickey into drowsiness. “Did Steve ask about how we met?”

“Yeah.” Ian made another “Hmm” noise, fingers stilling in Mickey’s hair. Mickey cleared his throat. “I didn’t tell him anything, but—I get tired of it. People asking that question.”

“It’s a pretty common question, you have to admit,” Ian commented.

“But it’s personal to us, so.” Even though Mickey couldn’t see Ian’s wrists from his hands being tangled in Mickey’s hair, Mickey could picture the thin, white scars along Ian’s wrists. Mickey shook his head. “I just hate it when people get offended when they don’t get an answer.”

“I know,” Ian said. He sighed, leaning forward to nuzzle against Mickey’s forehead. His fingers resumed their original motion. They were quiet for a moment, before Ian murmured, “Mick, I’m tired.”

“Alright.” Mickey kissed Ian once, very gently. “Let’s go to bed.”

-

“Usually I would tell you to snap out of it, Mickey, but from the bags under your eyes, I think this is more than just your usual spacing,” Karen’s voice said. Mickey looked up from the numbers swimming on his page.

Mickey rubbed at his eyes. “I’m just tired, is all.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Karen said. Mickey flipped her off, and she laughed. “There’s the Mickey I know.” Karen walked over to Mickey’s desk and sat on the chair opposite of his. “What’s wrong?”

“I swear I’m reading this page wrong,” Mickey replied, picking up the three papers he’d been going over and holding them out for her. Karen’s expression turned serious as she grasped the papers.

“Are any of the calculations wrong?” she said, eyes scanning the right side of the paper.

“No, but—” Mickey sighed, sitting down heavily in his chair. “I feel like I’m reading the same page over and over again, but they’re three different pages. Right? I’m not losing my mind?”

Karen chewed her lip as she read, a small habit of hers. Her eyebrows drew together. “No,” she said, drawing out the vowel. “See—here. They’re all different calculations, and the numbers are added correctly, see the total? Oh, wait—oh.” Karen glanced up at him.

“It has to be wrong, yeah?”

“No, it’s just.” Karen shook her head. “All the payments were made to the hospital, and all of them are under car crashes. So they all look the same, but—”

“—but why were there so many car crashes last month?” Mickey finished. Karen nodded, leaning back in her chair. “That is confusing me. There was an increase in car crashes last month, as if nobody could drive suddenly. This month doesn’t have nearly as many.”

“Coincidence?”

“Probably.” Mickey clicked onto his computer and went onto the online file of that month. “I mean, all of the bills made by the hospital were paid, so we don’t need to worry about calling anybody up. It’s just so _strange_ to me. What the fuck happened last month?”

“Do you want me to go talk to Amanda about it?” Karen asked. Amanda was the head and founder of the company they worked at, which basically helped the government and very expensive corporations keep track of their money. Amanda’s company was highly trusted because she was had a superpower for mathematical calculations and absolutely did not tolerate mistakes. Karen and Mickey were a part of her best group, which dealt more closely with any accounting problems the government threw their way.

“No, don’t bother her with it,” Mickey said. He laid the papers down to his finished pile. “If there’s nothing wrong with the calculations, then it doesn’t matter to us.” He glanced at it one more time before looking up at Karen. “What brought you over here?”

“Lunch,” she said. “Are you free to get some with me?” Mickey nodded in relief, and he got up to leave with her.

As they were exiting the building, Karen said, “By the way, Mandy told me to tell you that you need to call her more.”

“Call her more? Why couldn’t she call me?” Mickey snorted. “The irony of the fact that she didn’t call me to tell me this . . .”

“She says she does text you, but the conversations are monosyllabic,” Karen explained. Mickey raised an eyebrow. “You know, ‘hey mick, what are you doing,’ and you say ‘busy’ and—”

“And I ask ‘lunch?’ and she tells me she’s busy,” Mickey interrupted. Karen elbowed him. “Yeah, alright, alright, I get it. But for the record, there are some ‘I miss you’s' in there.”

“Along with name calling.”

“ _Hey_. You’re an only child, you wouldn’t get it.”

Karen rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare me the family drama. I’m dating your sister and I’ve been best friends with you for longer. I know enough about the two of you to get it.”

“Have I ever told you that I regret introducing the two of you?” Mickey asked, moving to the side when some douchebag wouldn’t move out of the way of Karen and Mickey.

“Monthly,” Karen said when she was by his side again. They arrived at the sandwich shop, and she opened the door for him. While Karen was ordering for the both of them—it was her turn, and they both ordered the same thing every time—Mickey took out his phone and texted Mandy.

Mickey: monosyllabic words

_Mands: oh my GOD_

_Mands: you’re a dick_

Mickey: name calling doesn’t foster sibling bonds

_Mands: says who?_

Mickey: your gf

_Mands: what does she know she’s an only child_

Mickey grinned, glancing up where Karen was ordering their food. The three of them were always switching off like this—some days it would be Mickey and Mandy against Karen, or Karen and Mandy against him, or Karen and Mickey against Mandy. Mickey’s favorite was when he and his sister grouped against Karen, because Karen’s exasperation was funny as fuck.

Mickey: that’s what i told her. lunch?

_Mands: dinner_

Mickey: don’t do this to me

_Mands: DINNER_

Mickey: that means i have to bring HIM

_Mands: he is literally your boyfriend DEAL WITH IT_

Mickey: you know how he is around you

_Mands: jealous that he likes me better than you? ;)_

Mickey: shut up that’s not true

Mickey: it’s NOT

Mickey: lunch

_Mands: DINNER. this weekend. bring ian or i’m throwing you out_

Mickey sighed. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered with Mandy. He should know that she always won their arguments. His phone beeped again.

_Mands: tell k i love her_

Mickey: what is this? elementary school?

_Mands: obviously not bc you didn’t know how to read in elementary school_

Mickey: WOW. i hate you

Mickey: see if i tell her now

_Mands: DINNER_

When Karen arrived at the table with their drinks, Mickey showed her Mandy’s text. Karen grinned and settled back against the booth. “So, we’re having dinner this weekend?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink. Mickey groaned.

-

Mickey had just finished looking over some reports when Ian called him. Mickey frowned at the phone, because Ian was on a hero job right now, and he picked up the phone with apprehension. “Hey, what’s up?” he asked as he  glanced at the clock. It was almost ten-thirty, and Ian’s night shift for hero duty was almost up.

“Mick.” Just from Ian’s tone of voice, Mickey knew something was wrong. Panic seized him for a moment.

“Ian? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“I need you to come down here.”

Mickey froze. “Is your job over?”

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian said, sounding pained, unable to actually say the words, and Mickey clenched his jaw.

“That was our agreement,” Mickey said furiously. “You could be a hero but I wouldn’t get involved.”

“You have to get down here,” Ian said hurriedly. Mickey stood up straighter, ready to refute him, but Ian kept talking at such a fast pace that Mickey didn’t have a chance to jump in. “There are people here, and they’re hurt, they have to be, we just don’t know what’s wrong with them—Mickey—love—please, I need you to come down here, you’re the only one I know that can figure this out.” Mickey groaned, and Ian was losing his breath, words coming out in gasps. “Mickey, please, we can’t do anything and traffic—the ambulance won’t be here for almost half an hour, you have to come down, you can help—I know I promised, but please, Mick, please—”

“I can’t,” Mickey cut in. He heard Ian’s sharp intake of breath. “Ian, I can’t. I don’t have a fucking costume, they’d recognize me—”

“In our closet, behind the coats, that plank is hollow, my old suit is in there—it might not fit but please—” Ian was really gasping now, and Mickey recognized it as relief. “You have to get here quickly, please, Mickey, it’s over in the west area, on Redwin Street, an old office building going up for sale, fourth floor—”

“Alright, fuck, alright,” Mickey said, already regretting his words. He wasn’t supposed to do this, he wasn’t a hero, and Ian had _promised_. “I’ll try, fuck.”

“Oh, Mickey, thank you, thank you, you know I’ll—” Ian’s voice cut off, and Mickey could hear someone else talking to him. “I have to go. Please, Mickey, try to get here as fast as I can.”

“I will,” Mickey replied, but he had absolutely no fucking idea how. “Stay safe—Ian, I mean it. You fucking stay safe.”

“You too,” Ian replied, voice wobbly. He cut off the phone, and Mickey stared in disbelief before turning down the hall. He went into their closet, pushed through the coats and touched the plank behind them, and then pushed it inwards. It gave, and Mickey stared at the clothes folded neatly in a little nook.

They were black, and Mickey did remember the look of these on Ian before he got a new costume, but he couldn’t believe Ian had actually kept them. With a sigh and couple of muttered curse words, Mickey pulled the suit on. It was slightly bigger length wise, but Mickey filled it out well. The pants were dark enough that they could be mistaken for regular pants, so Mickey pulled on a jacket over the top. Right before he left, he noticed his hands—they were covered, and he would need to be touching people, skin to skin, to be able to heal them.

“Fuck,” Mickey muttered, heading into the kitchen. He got out some scissors and cut away the extra material on his hands, short enough that his fingertips peeked out, but long enough that they covered his tattoos. They were way too noticeable.

Mickey left their apartment, carrying the mask in his jacket pocket, and went to the nearby subway.

\--

Needless to say, Mickey wasn’t in perfect shape. When he finished running to the building and he saw the the elevator wasn’t working, he cursed. He pulled on his mask as he ran up the stairs, and when he reached the fourth floor, he saw another figure waiting in the doorway. From the way Mickey’s power reacted, he could tell it was Ian.

“You came,” Ian said softly, reaching out to touch Mickey gently on the arm.

“I don’t fucking bail,” Mickey said, a bit harshly, and Ian retracted his arm as if burned. Guilt gnawed at Mickey for a second, but Ian was already pulling Mickey into the room. Mickey didn’t know what to expect in an empty, on-sale office building, but it wasn’t a bunch of people lying on the ground, clutching their stomachs.  

“What—”

“We don’t know,” a voice to his right said. A man stepped into Mickey’s sight, tall and skinny. His dark blue outfit had silver accents, and Mickey almost jumped in shock. It was Bolt. “I’m assuming that’s why you’re here. They’re alive, but . . .”

As if completing his sentence, a woman moaned, low and weak. Mickey walked over to her and touched her arm, but she flinched back. “I can help you,” Mickey said. “I can see what’s wrong.” She continued to shake her head, and Mickey thought it was because he was a hero, but then she pointed to a person slumped against her back. She shook the person, and they shuffled so that they faced him. Mickey swallowed—it was a fucking kid, about twelve years old.

“Help him,” she whispered, and Mickey nodded, shifting his kneeling stance towards the boy.

“What’s your name?”

“Charles,” the boy replied, voice quiet.

“Charles, will you allow me to help you?” asked Mickey. The boy glanced at his mom, but he nodded. Mickey reached for Charles’s hand,  fingers holding onto Charles’s palm, and let his powers flow into him.

He was distantly aware of Ian and Bolt coming closer to him—he could feel Ian naturally and see Bolt from his peripheral vision. Mickey closed his eyes. At first, he couldn’t feel anything in Charles, as his powers checked for superficial wounds. When that didn’t work, he went deeper, searching through the boy’s body. There wasn’t much wrong, except—what the fuck was metal doing in his body—

Mickey opened his eyes, breathing deeply. Bolt’s voice said, “What the fuck is he doing?” and Ian hushed him.

“May I?” he asked of Charles’s mother, and she nodded and gave him his hand. He took her hand and concentrated, and as he suspected, it was harder to feel it in her body. She was an adult, bigger and stronger, while Charles was still developing. His body was smaller, and it was easier to detect the problem.

Mickey nodded at her and took Charles’s hand again. This time, he focused harder on his symptoms—his slow, weak heartbeat, the chemicals in his blood, the slow response of his immune system, the loss of breath, and the stomach pains. Mickey tried fixing it, but it wouldn’t work. Charles’s body was fighting back, even as weak as it was, so Mickey’s power couldn’t do much. _Do it anyways_ , Mickey thought harshly, and pushed his powers in harder. It sped up Charles’s immune system, releasing more cells to attack the chemicals in the blood, but it didn’t do much—Charles’s body was still weak, his heartbeat still as slow, and he was still breathing hard. Mickey distantly heard Lips’ voice: _you have to have some limit._

Mickey stood, pulling away, and looked at Ian. “I can’t—” He stopped, glancing at Bolt. “The ambulance,” he said instead, “if they’re not prepared to heal this—their bodies are too weak—”

“What’s wrong?” Ian asked, glancing at the people moaning on the floor.

“Poisoned,” Mickey said. “There’s a strange metal in his body, and it’s releasing some type of toxin.”

His mother gasped, pulling Charles closer to her. “Poison?”

“It’s in you, too,” Mickey said. “It’s in everyone here.” He turned to Ian, beckoned him closer. “I tried speeding up their immune systems, but it doesn’t do much,” he whispered. “It would take me a while, and everyone is already pretty weak.”

Ian nodded. “Bolt, can you run to the ambulance and tell them what’s wrong?”

Bolt nodded and shifted his eyes to Mickey. “How do we explain how we knew?”

Ian grimaced—his mask only covered his hair and eyes, while Mickey and Bolt’s were the entire face—and said, “Just go, Bolt.”

Bolt nodded, and then he was gone so quickly, all Mickey saw was a trail of blue and silver streaks. He came back in about three minutes, saying the ambulance needed to know what type of toxin, but Mickey didn’t know. “I can’t identify which toxins they are, just that they exist,” he explained, and Bolt was off again.

Mickey went around to every person, checking for the tiny piece of metal in their bodies, making sure all the symptoms were the same. “The good news is that they’re all infected with the same thing,” Mickey told Ian. Wherever they went together, they always kept a distance, because no one could know they were actually dating. It was hard to keep this type of casual distance with him.

“That’s good news?” a person leaning against a desk asked.

“It could mean that you all share the same toxin in you,” Mickey responded. “It’ll be easier to heal.”

Bolt came back, announcing that the ambulances were going to be here in five minutes, and “Police have surrounded the area.”

“What?” Mickey asked. “What are they doing? They’re not allowed to, law says—”

“You know how much they care about the law when it comes to heroes and supers,” Bolt said, voice low and bitter. “Look, same plan as usual, yeah? Once you hear the sirens, you leave.”

Ian’s eyes cut to the people on the floor. “But they’re—”

“You leave, Might, and that’s fucking final,” Bolt snapped. “Take him with you,” he added, gesturing to Mickey. “The last thing we need is reporters swarming the building because there’s a new hero.”

“I’m not a hero,” Mickey protested.

Bolt snorted. “What are you doing here, then?”

Ian moved over to Mickey, touched his arms briefly. “We have to leave the second we hear those sirens. There’s a fire escape we can climb down, and then we have to run—Mickey, are you listening?—we have to run as fast as we can. We can’t be caught.”

“I thought there were laws.” Mickey’s brain felt clouded over from the night, and everything was confusing. “They have to respect heroes identities, the Department of Heroes made sure, the government passed the law—”

“You’ve been paying attention to the news,” Ian whispered harshly. “You know how society is beginning to feel. Who do you think the government supports—a bunch of fucking freaks running around in skin-tight, flashy Halloween costumes, or normal, law-enforcing citizens in police uniforms?”

Mickey stared at Ian, the full comprehension of the risk Ian’s been taking catching up to him. “You—” he started, but suddenly he heard sirens in the distance. Ian was already reaching for Mickey, and Ian grabbed his arm and began walking towards the entrance. Bolt saluted to Ian and went to the window to watch the ambulance pull up.

“Good luck,” Ian said to Bolt, and then they left the room.

\--

They got to the second floor and then heard people coming up, so Ian pulled him into another room and opened a window. “You know how to roll after jumping, right?” Ian asked. Mickey nodded and they jumped.

The rooftop of the building next to them dragged at Mickey’s body, and already his body was protesting at the scrape, skin torn and bleeding, his hands especially. It was strange to be running along the rooftops as his fingers healed themselves.

They climbed down a fire escape, landing in an alley, right as they heard a dog barking nearby. A man’s voice was talking to the dog, and then Mickey heard the walkie-talkie the man had. “Cop,” Mickey whispered. “Ian, take off the mask.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Take off the fucking mask!” Mickey ripped off his mask just as Ian did. He looked at Ian, who was glancing down the other end of the alley like he was gonna bolt. Mickey knew it wouldn’t work, because the dog would catch up to them, so Mickey acted fast.

“Make this look good,” Mickey said, and he pushed Ian up against the alley wall and kissed him. Ian made a noise of surprise, but clutched at Mickey. Mickey moved his body so that it covered Ian’s body, costume hidden from sight, and pulled away from Ian’s mouth to tell him to clutch at Mickey’s jacket. “Pull it wider, make it cover your body more,” Mickey said in between gasps, and Ian did it right as Mickey kissed him and the cop turned the corner, the dog barking like mad.

“Who’s there?” he asked, moving his flashlight around.

Mickey moved to Ian’s neck, sucking on a spot below his jaw, and then Ian was moaning, loud into the night air. He moaned again and added on a, “Oh, Curtis!” at the end.

The cop’s flashlight shone on them, and Mickey pulled away, trying to blink into the light. He shielded his eyes with one hand, making sure he still hid Ian’s body. “There a problem?” he asked.

The man lowered his flashlight. “Officer Harding,” the policeman said. “You two shouldn’t be here.”

“Sorry,” Ian said breathlessly, sounding exactly like he’d just been doing something sexual. “We just couldn’t wait to get home and—”

“Well, get home now,” Officer Harding said. He shook his flashlight. “This area is being cleared, boys.”

“Alright,” Ian said. When the officer didn’t look like he was leaving, Ian said in a low, flirtatious voice, “ _Thank_ you, officer. We wouldn’t want to be _caught_ . . . in any trouble.” Officer Harding coughed, clearly uncomfortable, and Mickey had to hand it to Ian—his voice had been exactly the right tone, implying extremely sexual thoughts.

“Get going, boys,” Harding said, and he continued his walk down the alley. Ian laced his fingers through Mickey’s, and they quickly turned the alley and took off running.

“Curtis?” Mickey gasped as they ran, his lungs burning.

“I couldn’t use your real name!”

“Who the _fuck_ is Curtis?”

Ian laughed, running slightly in front of him, and called back behind him, “He doesn’t exist anymore!”

When they reached the apartment building, Ian dragged Mickey up the stairs—“Elevators are way too clustered,” he said. “There are way too many people”—until they found their apartment and stumbled inside.

Mickey leaned against the door, breathing heavily, his lungs protesting his every breath and yet craving it at the same time. Ian was doubled over for a moment, and then he stood up straight, hands on the top of his head, and began to control his breathing.

“That was fucking wild,” Mickey said. He let his power reach out to Ian—besides being tired and his lungs working in overdrive, Ian was fine. Mickey thought about that kiss in the alley. “Come here,” Mickey said, voice rough.

Ian grinned like he knew what was on Mickey's mind and moved towards Mickey. He pushed Mickey up against the door, kissing him fiercely, pushed Mickey's jacket off his shoulders, and began finding the seams of his costume.

\--

Mickey must have forgotten to turn his phone off in the rush of last night, because it rang loudly in the morning, startling both him and Ian awake. Ian grumbled and tightened his arm around Mickey’s waist, and Mickey tried ignoring it, sighing in relief when the ringing stopped.

Only for it to start again.

Mickey groaned and got out of bed, even though Ian grabbed at him some more and complained about the cold, but he finally found the phone. It was Mandy calling. For a moment Mickey considered rejecting the call, but then he shook his head and answered it.

Before he could even say something snarky to her, she said, “Turn on the news.”

“What?”

“Turn on the fucking news, Mickey. This commercial break only lasts so long, and they’re gonna do the full segment on it right after.”

Mickey went into the living room, locating the remote and turning on the TV. “What channel?” he asked, yawning. Seriously, this better be good. Mandy had woken him up from a very good sleep.

“Channel Eight,” Mandy said.

Mickey snorted. “That news is shit, you know that.”

“Not anymore, turn to it.”

Just as Mickey turned to the channel, Ian walked in the living room, wearing a pair of boxers that Mickey noted as his own and muttering about coffee. He was admiring Ian’s ass in the boxers when the news came back on.

“There was a superhero incident last night in the West Side on Redwin Street,” the newswoman said. Mickey frowned, sitting down on the couch and telling Mandy to shut her yap. Ian started the coffee and then walked into the living room to watch. “Over twenty people woke up last night in an empty office building, unable to move from pains in their stomach. The Might and Bolt showed up to the scene fairly quickly, witnesses report, but couldn’t solve the problem, as it was internal.”

The other newscaster jumped in. “Ambulances were called by the two heroes and arrived on the scene in time to save everyone. They found tiny metal pellets in every person’s body”—here they showed a picture of a clean pellet—“that slowly released a deadly toxin into their bodies. Now, witnesses say that have no idea how the pellet got in there, as it wasn’t in the digestive system, but the pellets and the toxin have been removed.”

“All of this isn’t even the most interesting part,” the newswoman said, taking over again. “This incident also came with the arrival of a new hero.” Mickey froze, fingers tightening on the remote, and Ian made a small choking noise. “Witnesses said that once Bolt and The Might realized they couldn’t do anything, The Might took out a cell phone piece and called someone outside of the room. Less than twenty minutes later, another hero arrived at the scene, although no one recognized him. Here are some witnesses on the new hero.”

The screen changed to one of the people Mickey had helped, a woman with blonde hair. “He was short,” she said. Mickey made an offended noise while Ian stifled a laugh. “At least, he was shorter than the other two heroes. He was wearing a black costume with red and orange in it, and the tips of his fingers were visible through his costume.”

“What is his power?”

The woman struggled. “Honestly, I can’t tell you. He just held our hands for a minute or two before telling us what was wrong. Oh! His hands were very warm. Warmer than a normal person’s, that is. That’s all I can really tell you.” She smiled apologetically.

The screen cut back to the two newscasters. “Police have contacted the Department of Heroes, but they released a statement saying that whoever the hero was, they weren’t registered.”

“A rogue hero, it seems,” the other newscaster said. They both laughed. “It seems we’ll have to keep an eye out for this new hero.” The news cut to the weather, and Mickey sat there in shock, staring at the TV screen.

A hand touched his shoulder. “Mick,” Ian whispered, and Mickey could hear Mandy’s voice through the phone. “Mick, don’t freak out.”

“Coffee,” Mickey said, rather dumbly, and Ian nodded and left. Mickey brought up the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Tell me that wasn’t fucking you,” Mandy demanded.

Mickey sighed. “Mands—”

“Oh my fucking god. You promised me. You _promised_!” she yelled. “You said you weren’t gonna do that hero bullshit.”

“Ian needed a favor,” was all Mickey could say.

“You think I care about that? Look at you, Mickey—you’re an unregistered hero. That’s not just state, the police aren’t gonna come after you—that’s the fucking feds. You’re gonna have the government on your ass if this happens again.”

“It’s not gonna happen again!” Mickey protested. He began pacing the living room area, aware of Ian’s eye on him in the kitchen.

“You said it wasn’t going to happen at all and yet you did, so sorry if I don’t fucking believe you!” Mandy exclaimed. “You’re such a motherfucker, Mickey, this is some deep shit you got yourself into—” Mandy’s voice was cut off suddenly, and there was static over the phone.

“Hey Mickey,” Karen said. “No, Mandy—stay away, it’s my turn!” She sighed. “Look, what Mandy is saying is that we’re very worried about you.”

“Everything is under control,” Mickey replied, keeping his voice as calm as possible. “I’ve got this.”

“Just think about this, Mickey,” Karen said, voice low. “You’re unregistered, whether you want to be a hero or not. They already labeled you as one, so you are one. The longer it takes to find you, the worse it’s gonna be.” Karen paused. “I hate to do this, but you’re putting Ian in danger too.”

Mickey bristled at that. “I would never—”

“He’s the one who called you, Mickey. It was on national news that The Might called this new hero. They’re going to go through him to find you.”

Mickey closed his eyes, trying to calm down. He took a couple of deep breaths before replying. “Ian is already in danger of getting caught just for the sake of being The Might. He knows the consequences. We’ll deal with this.” Karen started arguing again, but Mickey cut in with a curt, “Are we still invited for dinner tomorrow?”

There was a loud “NO” in the background from Mandy, but Karen laughed and said, “Ignore her. Yes, the both of you are still invited, but you owe us. Bring fancy wine.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey said.

“We really are worried,” Karen said, voice gentle. “We just want you to be safe.”

“I know,” Mickey said. “We’ll see you two tomorrow.”

Karen sensed Mickey’s dismissal and sighed. “Goodbye, Mickey.”

Mickey ended the call, sitting back down heavily on the couch. Ian came over with two cups of coffee, gave one to Mickey, and sat down next to Mickey on the couch, bodies pressed together and blowing on his coffee.

“Everything is fucked,” Mickey said quietly.

“Everything is not fucked,” Ian said. His tone sounded like a parent scolding their child. “We’ve got this, yeah? You and me. I’ll deal with the heads up in the Department. We’ll figure this out.” He reached up with his hand and touched Mickey’s bottom lip. “Stop chewing on your lip. You’re gonna bite it bloody.” Mickey stopped, because he knew Ian was right. Mickey chewed on his lip when he was nervous.

“They’re gonna search for me. They’re gonna search for _you_.”

“It’s going to be okay. I’m stronger than they are.” Ian grinned that fucking lopsided grin of his, and Mickey rolled his eyes, but he actually wanted to kiss him.

“Dumbass.”

“You know what I mean, Mickey. I’m not just stronger than them physically.” Ian took a small sip of his coffee. “I’ll have Lip set you up with some stuff,” Ian added. “He’ll help us out.”

Mickey nodded, but he couldn’t help but think about every worse possibility happening. He still couldn’t believe that they showed their faces last night, to a fucking cop. He wondered if the cop suspected anything now.

“Hey,” Ian murmured. He took Mickey’s chin and kissed Mickey softly, mouthing at his bottom lip.

“You taste like coffee,” Mickey muttered.

Ian laughed, hand sneaking around Mickey’s waist. “Better than morning breath, at least.”

Mickey didn’t think he minded any breath that much, as long as he was kissing Ian.

\--

Mandy flipped them off when she opened the door, but Ian held up the wine and she let them in. Mickey scowled when she hugged Ian but didn’t hug him.

“Oh, really? You’re gonna be like that?” he said.

Mandy considered him for a moment before punching him hard on the arm. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“It was Ian’s idea! He should be getting punches, not hugs!”

“Ian brought in the wine,” Mandy said, giving one last glare to Mickey before closing the door behind them.

Karen actually gave him a hug, even though she whispered in his ear that she was also a tiny bit angry. Karen and Mandy had already started a dinner, and Ian and Mandy were already opening the wine and chatting rapidly.

Mickey sighed. “He does _not_ like her more than me.”

Karen patted his arm. “Hate to break it to you, but everyone does.”

Their night ended with how their dinners usually ended: drunk and talking shit. Actually, Karen and Mickey were sitting on the couch, Karen’s feet in Mickey’s lap as they talked, while Ian and Mandy were play-fighting. Mandy was creating force fields, and Ian was attempting to use his strength to break them. So far he was failing. Mickey could have warned him ahead of time, because he knew that Mandy’s powers were strong.

Both he and Mandy’s powers were _very_ strong, and both of them had vowed to never be heroes.

Mickey watched Ian pound on Mandy’s force field and sighed. “It’s like taking care of children.”

“Stop using your powers, young whippersnappers!” Karen croaked in an old person’s voice. Mickey shot her a confused look. “That’s what you sound like when you complain about children.”

“I wasn’t complaining about _children_. I was complaining about my sister and my boyfriend _acting_ like children.”

Karen snorted and sipped some beer from the can, eyes on Mandy and Ian. “Your boyfriend,” she repeated.

Mickey glanced at her, but Karen’s expression was pretty neutral. “What is it?”

“Ian’s your boyfriend,” she said.

“Um, yeah.”

“He’s been your boyfriend for what? Four years now?”

“Something like that,” Mickey said, shifting his legs a little. They were getting numb from being under Karen’s legs for so long. “What’s your point?”

Karen leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Don’t you ever think about marrying him?”

“ _Marrying_ him?” Mickey repeated, voice close to a panicked shout. Ian and Mandy stopped their play and looked at them. Mickey waved his hand, trying to appear nonchalant. “Person at work, she’s engaged to her boyfriend. We think he’s an absolute dick.” Mandy and Ian shrugged but resumed to their game.

“Smooth,” Karen said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey replied through gritted teeth. “Why the fuck would I be thinking about marriage?”

“Maybe because it’s been four plus years and you’re in love with him? Why wouldn’t you want to marry him?”

“Ian and I aren’t like that.”

“What? The settling down type? The long-term commitment type? Because you two are already there!” Karen whispered fiercely.

“Just—marriage!” Mickey glanced at Ian to make sure he wasn’t paying attention. “Like you said, we’re already settled down, we’re already committed. We don’t need to be married. We just—don’t. That’s not us.” Mickey took a long gulp of his beer. “Fuck, why are you even thinking that?”

Karen wouldn’t meet Mickey’s eyes. She watched Mandy and Ian for a minute or two, picking at the tab on the beer. “I’ve been kinda thinking about it,” she finally said. “Marrying Mandy.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “You.”

“ _No_ , Mandy’s other girlfriend.”

“ _You_?” Mickey nudged her with his elbow. “The girl that said marriage was just a contract that held women as property—”

“Wow, thank you for quoting my past self from about five years ago!” Karen rolled her eyes. “It’s called growing up, Mickey. And besides, my past self didn’t think I’d come to love someone this much.” _I can relate to that_ , Mickey thought, watching Ian laugh. “I just feel that it’s right.”

Karen’s tone of voice was quiet and tinged with worry, and then Mickey fucking understood. “You want my blessing.”

“She _is_ your sister.”

Karen turned to look Mickey directly in the eyes, eyes clear and unafraid. She really wants this, Mickey realized. She really loved Mandy, and Mickey knew Mandy loved her. “Alright,” Mickey said.

Karen blinked, looking surprised. “Really?”

“What, you thought I was gonna say no?”

“I thought you would need more convincing—”

“Shut the fuck up, I don’t need convincing from you.” Mickey smiled at her, and Karen grinned, looking happier than he could ever remember seeing her.

Suddenly, there was a loud exploding sound in the apartment. Karen jumped, sloshing beer over her shirt, and she and Mickey looked at Ian and Mandy.

Ian was grinning. “I got her force field to ripple! I’m getting stronger!” Karen laughed and got up to wipe at her shirt, but Mickey kept watching Ian hit Mandy’s shield, his laughter loud and sweet, and felt something shift in his mind.

* * *

  **part ii. superpower (a tough love)**

_“and i thought the world would revolve without us, but nothing i know could slow us down”_

* * *

 Ian was frowning at his phone when Mickey returned home from work.

“Bad news from work?” Mickey asked. Ian didn’t reply, instead typing on his phone. Mickey rolled his eyes and kissed Ian on the forehead as he came inside.

“Hmm?” Ian asked, looking up. Mickey repeated his question, and Ian smiled wearily. “No, it’s just—bad news from the Department of Heroes. About the other night at Redwin Street.”

Mickey stopped his movements, turning to Ian. “What did they say?”

“Nothing about you,” Ian said, smiling. “Like I said, you’re safe.”

Mickey frowned, moving to where Ian was sitting at the table. “Then what?”

“Something the news weren’t allowed to see,” Ian said. “The Department confiscated the pellets from the hospital. One of them was special. It wasn’t actually filled with poison.”

Mickey's frown deepened, eyebrows furrowing. “That’s impossible. I would have felt if they weren’t poisoned—”

“They had two pellets in them, Mick.” Ian’s eyes dropped to the phone once more. “There was a _note_ in the other pellet.”

“A note,” Mickey repeated. “You mean whoever fucking did this left a note? What the fuck?”

Ian nodded. “It says _poison doesn’t just come from power_. And this was carved into the side of the pellet.” Ian raised his phone up to Mickey. On it was a zoomed in picture of the pellet, where a small human skull was carved into the side.

“What does it mean?” Mickey asked.

Ian pressed his lips together. “It means there’s another villain out there. And he'll probably make himself known again.”

\--

That night, Mickey startled awake, Ian’s body over his giving off too much body heat. Mickey was sweating—the sheets were sticking to his skin—and his mouth was dry. Ian didn’t make a noise when Mickey got out of bed, but he did move into Mickey’s space on the bed.

Mickey went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, staying close to the fridge to let the cold air wash over him. It made him shiver, but it was much more comfortable than the heat. He drank the water gratefully, throat burning a little when he swallowed, but eventually the burn went away. Mickey wiped his mouth and poured another glass, still shivering a little.

It had been years since the incident, and Mickey still had nightmares about it. They weren’t often—maybe once in two months—but they were always a sleepless night for Mickey.

“Hey.” Ian walked into the kitchen to where Mickey was standing. Ian had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “You okay?”

Mickey gave a short laugh. “You really can’t sleep without me, can you?”

Ian’s grin was sheepish as he shrugged. He watched Mickey take another drink and asked, “Who was it this time?”

Mickey put the glass down. It hit their countertop with a loud noise, and Mickey winced. “It was you this time,” Mickey said. Ian bit his lip, looking away. “Only you didn’t—you didn’t do it yourself. My father, he took the knife and—” Mickey cleared his throat. Ian could already get the picture; Mickey didn’t have to go into detail. “It’s been five years since I found you,” Mickey continued, “and even longer since I saw my father, and yet I still fucking have nightmares about him. Fuck.”

Ian moved forward and placed a comforting hand on Mickey’s arm. "It was a hard time," Ian said quietly. Mickey nodded and let Ian wrap the blanket around the two of them.

It was how they met, if what happened to them could be called a meeting. A coincidence, maybe. A miracle, definitely.

They'd been in college, in Mickey's third year and Ian's second year, and Mickey had stayed up until two in the morning to finish his work. He'd decided to go to the bathroom before he went to bed, but he could have never expected what was going to happen. He walked into the bathroom and saw, in one of the farthest showers, blood on the floor. It was mixed in with some water, making it look less red, but there seemed like so much it was overwhelming. And then Mickey turned the corner and saw Ian lying there.

It was an image that was burned into Mickey's mind—Ian lying on the floor, shirtless, with red wrists and water pouring down on him. Mickey's mind had felt like it was on lockdown, empty and quiet, but he had moved anyways, kneeling in the water and grasping Ian's wrists. His powers had rushed out of him so quickly that Mickey had felt like something had been ripped from him. He had panicked, unsure what to heal first and how to keep Ian alive. He remembered healing parts of the wrists, clotting the blood and stopping it from leaving, but then there was so little blood in Ian's body that Mickey focused on replenishing the blood loss.

Mickey didn't remember screaming for help, but apparently he did, because some other man skidded into the room, saw them, and called the ambulance. Mickey was taken into the ambulance with Ian, holding onto his hand and focusing on healing his blood loss, the ragged skin at his wrists, his shallow breathing.

There was blood on Ian's mouth, and every breath he took sounded weak. But he was alive.

Ian's family had been called and arrived at the hospital three hours later, but Mickey still didn't leave. It was strange, but Mickey felt a strong pull towards Ian, like if Mickey left, Ian wouldn't live. So Mickey stayed.

(They told him later that if Mickey didn't have healing powers and had just called the ambulance that night, Ian wouldn't have made it to the hospital.)

Debbie and Carl had been the ones to take Mickey to the bathroom to wash the blood off his hands. Lip had been the one to ask the questions about what happened. Fiona had been the one that hugged him and whispered "Thank you" in his ear over and over.

He and Ian became friends after that. Mickey visited Ian every day to check up on him—not to mention that Mickey still felt that strong pull towards Ian—and eventually they’d become close. After Ian was released from the hospital, he came to Mickey’s dorm to thank him, and afterwards they kept hanging out around campus and in each other’s dorm, keeping tabs on each other, until eventually they’d started dating.

So there was a lot of shit between them. Ian always joked, “Mickey and I don’t fight because we got all the horrible shit out in the beginning,” and Mickey would glare at him.

But for some reason it still stuck with him, and he had nightmares about that night in the bathroom. Even _Ian_ didn’t have them.

“I haven’t asked about you in a while,” Mickey said quietly, half into Ian’s hair.

“What?” Ian said, shifting his fingers on the blanket.

“I’m supposed to, aren’t I? That’s what the therapist said. I should have open discussions with you about being bipolar and how you’re feeling and stuff.”

Ian sighed. “Some days have been a bit hazy, but otherwise I feel fine. I’m really tired in the morning, but once I get up it’s better.” He moved so that he was face to face with Mickey, bodies pressed together. When Mickey pushed him up against the kitchen counter, the corner of his mouth pulled up. “I’ve rejected a couple of the Department’s last calls,” Ian admitted. “The other heroes can cover. Bolt and Bruiser have been picking up my slack, but I just can’t . . . some days are worse than others, you know? And I just can’t spend that energy running around the city and lifting so many heavy objects, even with my powers.”

Mickey understood, even relieved a little. He hated to think that Ian was pushing himself. “And sometimes you miss me,” Mickey added.

“And sometimes I miss you,” Ian said. He leaned forward and caught Mickey’s mouth in a slow kiss, blanket dropping to the floor. “Only sometimes, though,” he added, slightly breathless, and Mickey just laughed and kissed him again.

\--

Mickey noticed the difference, later. Ian didn’t answer any of the Department of Heroes requests for another week, in which Mickey got used to waking up with Ian every morning and going to bed with him every night. He got used to making breakfast and coming home to Ian writing on his computer. One day Ian came home from work and held up three DVD cases. “Guess who has three new movies to marathon?” Ian asked, grinning. Ian always let Mickey watch them with him, and they curled up on the couch together, Ian leaning against Mickey’s chest and notebook in his lap (usually it was forgotten as Ian settled more comfortable against Mickey’s chest).

They both knew that watching it then wasn’t the time for Ian to write notes for his article and he would do it later, but right now was just a time for them to relax.

Sometimes Mickey wished he had the power for seeing the future, because then he would’ve known. He would have known to revel in the one week of peace, to make sure to memorize everything about the week and store it in his memory. Maybe he would have slowed down a little, taken his time, watched the way the sunlight danced over Ian’s face in the mornings, but he hadn’t known. So instead he’d just acted the way everyone ignorant of the future does—as if nothing in the future was going to go wrong.

Murphy’s Law or something. Mickey used to abide by that law when he was growing up in his childhood home. It was something he and Mandy had always whispered to each other when something went bad—which, for them, had been quite frequently.

Mickey would curse it all to the beginning, when Ian asked him to be a hero for that one night. Mickey had been stupid to think that he would only do it once.

\--

Ian had been scribbling notes on a piece of paper nearby, Mickey watching TV, when Ian’s phone rang. It was short, one ring, in a certain ringtone that Mickey knew was the Department. Ian sighed, put down his pen, and went into their bedroom. “You’re going?” Mickey called, even though the answer was obvious. He heard Ian exclaim “Yes!” back, and Mickey pushed down his disappointment. He had just been getting used to Ian being safe and protected, and he was already going back out again.

Then Ian’s phone rang again. It was the same ringtone as the Department, except this time it didn’t stop on one ring. It kept going.

Ian walked back into the room, suit already pulled on and mask dangling from his fingers. “What the fuck?” he said, reaching for the phone. “Lip?” he asked, confused, when he answered. “Why are you—he’s hurt? What happened?” Ian was pacing, a dark frown on his face. “What do you mean, _mutilated_? Who caught him—” Ian stopped pacing, nodding his head. “Alright, Lip. I’ll keep in touch.”

He turned to Mickey, and Mickey already knew what was coming out of his mouth. “What happened?” Mickey asked.

“Bolt,” Ian said. “The new villain—the one from the poison incident. They—they caught Bolt and tortured him—”

Mickey’s blood ran cold. “Tortured him? He’s—”

“He’ll live,” Ian said. “But Mickey, the hospitals, they won’t keep this quiet, and Bolt’s been hurt in his head, he doesn’t have long—”

“Alright.” Mickey sighed and turned the TV off.

“What?”

“You’re gonna ask me to come, right? Heal him?”

“Will you?”

“Do I have to put on that goddamn suit?”

“Yes, Mick.”

“Fuck.” Mickey ran a hand through his hair, feeling a strange sort of energy run through his body. “I’ll go change.”

\--

Ian led him to an empty warehouse, and Mickey would have laughed if he wasn’t breathless from running. Seriously, he wasn’t in the best shape for running around the city at night. How the fuck Ian did it most nights, he would never know.

They found a table on one of the levels, and Bolt’s body had been lain on it. His mask was off, and he was moaning in pain. Mickey went straight to the table and flinched away. There was blood—so much blood that it soaked Bolt’s suit slightly—and Bolt’s breath was just as weak as Ian’s had been.

 _You can do this_ , Mickey told himself forcefully. _You saved Ian, and you can save him too_.

“How did this happen?” Ian said to his left. Suddenly a woman appeared out of the shadows, dark purple suit hugging her figure tightly, a blue mask across her face, highlighting her red lips, her dark hair long and straight. Blue, red, and purple. _Bruiser_ , Mickey thought. He shivered again.

“He got caught,” Bruiser replied. She had a thick Brazilian accent. “Department said he didn’t call in after a couple hours. An hour ago they got a call from an anonymous phone, couldn’t be traced. It told them an address. They found him.”

“They tortured Bolt and then called us?” Ian said incredulously. Mickey reached his hand out, to Bolt’s left hand. Bolt’s hand was covered in blood, and Mickey thought of all the torture information he knew about from his father. His stomach squirmed, but he touched his hand to Bolt’s anyways.

It was a nightmare. Mickey’s body froze, paralyzed and in shock, a painful sensation burning up his arm, followed by a complete numbness. Bolt’s body bucked, and Mickey’s powers felt like they were shrieking, screaming in his head. He almost crumpled, but he felt Ian’s hand on his hips, Ian speaking in his ear. Mickey couldn’t hear him, but he felt steadier from Ian’s touch. All he could see was Bolt’s pain—and then, beautifully—Bolt’s chance to live.

“What is he doing?” Bruiser hissed, stalking closer to the table Bolt was on.

He had cuts all over his body—along his legs, up and down his arms, and criss-crossing his torso. The wounds to his head were most worrying to Mickey, so Mickey laid his fingers against Bolt’s temples. Mickey was surprised by how young Bolt was, maybe twenty-one or so. The blood was already beginning to dry on his dark skin, so Mickey assumed that the head wounds had started early on. Mickey focused on his breathing when he touched Bolt’s skin, so he didn’t flinch this time. Mickey narrowed his powers to healing any nerves in his skull, making sure nothing about the brain was damaged, and then focused on healing the skin. It was surprisingly easy—there wasn’t any damage to important parts of his head, nothing that would be too damaging or irreversible, and that made Mickey suspicious. He kept a hand on Bolt’s jaw but touched his neck. He could feel the long, deep cuts of his chest, but it missed major organs and didn’t fracture any bone. Yet they had been designed to be painful.

Was this torture or a message?

“I need someone to get that suit off of him,” Mickey said. He looked up, suddenly aware of Bruiser watching him with curious, glittering eyes, and Ian to his left, elbows touching. Ian was the one who responded. He grabbed the collar of Bolt’s suit in his hands and ripped a clear line down his torso, stopping at his waist. “That’s fine,” Mickey said, moving his hands lower on his chest.

Bolt’s stomach sucked in at Mickey’s touch, but Mickey hushed him and laid his fingers gently on Bolt’s skin. Bruiser reached up and ran her fingers lightly over Bolt’s scalp, murmuring soft words in her husky voice. It was easier to work through Bolt’s body from this point—his heartbeat was weak but moving, striving towards life with every beat, and blood was rushing to help. The heart was centric to his system, and here Mickey was of more help. He felt centered.

His legs and feet were also deep wounds that missed important body parts—while it cut into the flesh and penetrated some muscle, it never hit key tendons or muscles that would damage Bolt. In fact, the one way to stop Bolt would be to hurt his legs so he couldn’t run any longer—why had the villain left them alone? “He knew what he was doing,” Mickey muttered.

There wasn’t too much pain in the process—Mickey’s powers weren’t the type to cause as much pain healing as it took to cause the wounds. The bodies might become sore, and bones shifting into place would hurt, but all these cuts felt easy. Mickey could feel Bolt’s heartbeat become steady, listened to the way his breathing slowed and returned to normal. His immune system was in overdrive, but Mickey controlled it, sending out cells to certain areas and making areas of the body respond quicker.

Eventually Mickey felt the tell-tale sign that the body couldn’t take much more healing, that everything just needed time and rest, so he pulled his hands away. Mickey felt his powers return to him—he felt himself return to him—and he took a couple steps backwards, gasping. Bruiser checked Bolt’s body, watching the thin lines slowly turn white as they healed, and her eyes went wide. “You can heal people?” she whispered in awe.

Bolt made a small groaning noise. “Water,” he croaked.

“He needs sleep,” Mickey said slowly. “Listen, Bolt. Get some sleep when you get home. Don’t do anything tomorrow but rest. Rest and eat and sleep. You need your body to get back to its strength relatively quickly, or you’ll need me again. And no running, I’m serious.”

Bruiser was helping Bolt sit up, but his arms were shaking too much and he could only lean on his elbows. “Fuck,” Bolt said, laughing slightly.

“I can take you home,” Ian said, stepping forward. “I can carry you to your place.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about you knowing where I live,” Bolt said hesitantly. “I got a fucking wife and kids—”

“You think I’d do anything?” Ian snapped. “Who else is going to take you? Bruiser? I’m the only one who can carry you easily for a long period of time.”

Bolt nodded, looking resigned, and then shifted his eyes to Mickey. “Where the fuck did you find him?” he asked, giving Mickey a look of respect and awe. “And why the fuck have you kept him hidden?”

Ian put his arms under Bolt’s legs and arms. “Because I don’t control whether he wants to participate in this hero shit or not.”  

“Party pooper,” Bolt muttered, eyes closing.

Ian turned to Bruiser. “You good?”

“I got it,” she replied. She reached behind her and pulled out two short, thin knives, gripping them tightly in her hands. “I’ll take this night.” She nodded to Ian, then Mickey, and was running to the side and jumping out the window.

Ian shifted Bolt in his arms. “You good? Meet me at the place?” Ian asked. Funny, that “the place" was vague enough that it could mean anywhere to everyone else, but if they knew who Mickey and Ian were to each other, then everything would be different.

“Be careful,” Mickey warned as Ian left the room. Ian nodded, and Mickey watched from the window as Ian carried Bolt across the street and into the night.

Mickey stared at the empty warehouse, where a small splash of Bolt’s blood was drying on the table, and left as quickly as possible.

\--

Ian walked in while Mickey was doing sit ups. He paused in the door, raising his eyebrows, before coming into the apartment fully. “Why are you working out?” he asked.

“I can’t work out?”

“Never said that. Just wondering why you are.”

“I’m a bit out of shape.”

Ian set his bag down on the dining table. He gave Mickey a confused look. “You’re not out of shape.”

“Uh, yeah I fucking am. I lose my breath so easily when I run.”

Ian walked closer to him. His expression cleared, and he grinned. “This is about the superhero thing, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off, it’s not.”

“Oh? No?” Ian suddenly moved and straddled Mickey’s waist, and Mickey huffed and laid back on the ground. “Tell me, when else do you run?”

“Shut the fuck up, I run a lot.” Ian laughed. Mickey said, “Oh, you think that’s funny?” and suddenly pushed up, trying to flip them, but Ian forced his weight down a little more, and Mickey was literally pinned beneath him. By Ian’s fucking ass. “Ian,” he warned.

“What are you going to do?” Ian asked, smile full of mirth. “I’m literally _sitting_ on you and you can’t move.”

“You have fucking super strength, stop acting so smug,” Mickey snapped.

Ian ran his hands down Mickey’s torso, in a light, sweeping motion. “Alright, alright, I’ll lay off,” Ian said. Then, “Well, not literally, because I do enjoy this situation right now—”

“You are such an asshole, why am I dating you?”

“—and you’re really cute when you’re sweaty and red,” Ian finished.    

Mickey flipped him off. Ian leaned down and kissed him, and Mickey did not kiss back. At all. He was a prisoner right now. And not thinking about sex. At all.

“Alright, be honest with me right now,” Mickey said when Ian pulled away (only slightly though). “Since you have super strength, could you break my pelvis or some shit when we fuck?”

Mickey had never seen Ian laugh so hard in his fucking life. Seriously, Ian was fucking crying, his body shaking on top of Mickey, and Mickey couldn’t even walk away. He had to lie there, watching Ian laugh his fucking ass off. Ian’s nose did that thing where it got really red when he laughed too much, and fuck, Mickey loved his laughter. He was supposed to be mad at Ian right now, not appreciating how cute he was. Fuck this.

“It’s not that funny!” Mickey exclaimed after Ian calmed down for a moment and then began laughing again. “It’s a serious fucking question! Could you?”

“Honestly?” Ian said, wiping his cheeks. “Yeah, I could.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows as Ian laughed a little more, softer, hiccuping-type laughs, but he grew serious when he noticed Mickey’s stare. “What?” he asked.

“Seriously? You could break my bones?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You’re very calm about this. I’m thinking we may never fuck again.”

Ian started laughing again. “God, you’re ridiculous.” He seemed to relax suddenly, shoulders not as tight. “Try and flip me now.” Mickey was dubious, but he used his strength to move them. When Ian’s body had felt like steel before, now it felt like his actual body, giving easily. Before Mickey could fully turn them, Ian wrestled him back against the floor. “See?” Ian said, slightly breathless. “That was without my powers. You can move me then.” His mouth twitched in amusement. “I have control over my powers, Mickey. I’m not gonna use my powers while we’re fucking.”

“Get off of me before you do actually break my pelvis,” Mickey said, slapping Ian lightly on the thigh. Ian rolled his eyes and got up, holding out his hand so that he could help Mickey up.

“We’re not gonna be able to fuck for weeks now, thank you very much,” Ian said.

“Why?”

“Because every time we do I’m just gonna laugh thinking about possibly breaking your pelvis.”

“I fucking hate you. Sleep on the couch.”

Ian laughed again. Mickey ignored how red his nose was.

\--

Two days later, Ian got a call from Lip.

“What’s up?” Ian asked, leaning against the kitchen counter. Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ian, and Ian shrugged, so Mickey returned to making breakfast. “What does that mean?” Ian asked, tone worried, and then he sighed. “Yes, alright. You know I’ll be safe.”

“What’s wrong?” Mickey asked, biting off a piece of bacon.

Ian set his phone down on the counter. “This new villain—he just released a statement.” At Mickey’s confused look, he added, “Anonymously. And he didn’t announce it to the public, but he made it known to the Department. That’s not uncommon. It’s the message he sent that’s weird.”

“What was it?”

“He apparently said: _I notice your favorite fast runner didn’t go to a hospital_.” Ian scrubbed his face. “What the fuck does that mean? Why would he care whether or not Bolt went to a hospital when he’s the one who hurt him in the first place?”

“From what I know,” Mickey began, “we don’t figure out the villain’s motives until, like, chapter twenty-six. At the very least.”

Ian glared at him, but the corners of his mouth was twitching. “You’re a dumbass,” Ian said fondly, moving over to the stove. “And you’re burning the bacon.”

\--

Karen wasn’t acting like Karen. She kept touching everything, smoothing the tablecloth, fixing her dress or her jewelry, flattening down her hair, and circling her bracelet around her wrist. She was hardly even eating. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey hissed into her ear when Ian and Mandy were in deep conversation.

“I have it in my fucking purse,” Karen whispered.

Mickey frowned. “Have what? A fucking chinchilla?”

Karen stepped on his shoe, which, what the _fuck_. She was wearing heels. “The ring,” she whispered. Mickey froze, beer at his lips, and then forced himself to drink so that Ian and Mandy didn’t notice anything wrong.

“You have it here? You’re doing it tonight?”

“Why the fuck do you think we’re at this fancy restaurant?” Karen said, shooting him a harsh look. They were actually on the patio of the restaurant, and now that Mickey noticed, they were the only table out here despite being a very nice, possibly crowded restaurant. Mickey assumed Karen had something to do with that.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were going to propose with Ian and me right fucking here!”

“You’re supposed to—” Karen stopped when the waiter came to the table and asked how their meal was going. Mickey gave a polite smile while Ian and Mandy assured him everything was fine. When he left, Karen told him quietly, “You and Ian are going to leave and then I’m doing it.”

“God, when?”

“After we pay, dumbass. I’m pretty sure Mandy and I are going to want to leave immediately.”

Mickey groaned, shaking his head. “Thank you for that, that’s exactly the image I needed right now—”

“Oh shut up. I’m about to propose to your sister and you’re complaining about hearing about our sex life? Eat my ass,” Karen snapped.

Mickey watched they way her shoulders tensed up, the slight frown on her face, and sighed. “Eat something,” he said, nudging her with his elbow. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Eat, for fuck’s sake. Mandy probably thinks it’s weird that you’re not. Stop acting suspicious,” Mickey told her, eating some of his own food. Karen muttered “You’d know all about acting suspicious, wouldn’t you?” and Mickey stepped on _her_ shoe this time.

Mickey attempted to get Ian’s attention, but he wouldn’t stop talking to Mandy. Mickey rolled his eyes and got out his phone.

Mickey: hey

Ian checked his phone when it rang, then raised his eyes at Mickey. “Really?” he said, looking slightly amused. “You can’t go without talking to me for at least ten minutes?”

Mandy snorted. “He seriously can’t,” she said, and then began telling Karen a (very embarrassing) story about Mickey he must’ve told Mandy about Ian while he was drunk.

Mickey still didn’t want Mandy to possibly overhear, which was easier since Ian was across the table from him, so Mickey texted Ian again.

Mickey: make sure Mandy can’t see your phone screen

Ian looked confused, raising his eyes to Mickey again, but followed directions.

_Ian: what is going on?????_

Mickey: karen is proposing to mandy tonight

Mickey wished he could have taken a picture of Ian’s face, but the way his eyes widened told of his absolute surprise. He glanced up at Mickey, his expression of surprise making way for delight, and then schooled his expression to try and look innocent.

Honestly, Mickey didn’t understand how Ian was a hero and had a secret identity. He couldn’t play things cool for shit.

The waiter definitely knew, too—he offered very fancy wine at the end, “On the house,” he said—and they all graciously accepted, though Ian winked at Karen. Karen flipped him off. Ian raised an eyebrow at Mickey _like when do we leave?_ Mickey shook his head— _not yet_ —and started talk with Mandy over her work. Karen went to pay for the dinner when the bill came, but Mickey snatched the check from her fingers and paid for it himself. She looked slightly mad, but he whispered in her ear, “It’s my treat, seriously,” and she seemed appeased.

The waiter came back, looking to Mickey and saying that there was a mistake with his payment. Mickey knew it was bullshit, but recognized it for the escape he and Ian needed. Ian saw it too, because he jumped up and said, “I’ll bring money in case Mickey’s card doesn’t work.” Mickey squeezed Karen’s shoulder once, Ian smiled at her, and then they both left the patio.

They stared through the door, the waiter included. At first Mandy and Karen just talked, and Mickey grumbled, “What the fuck is she waiting for?” Ian told him to shut up, circling his arms around Mickey’s waist. Mickey was impatient, nervous, tapping his foot, while Ian seemed totally calm, a serene smile on his face.

Finally it fucking happened, although Mickey actually laughed at Karen’s attempt. She “dropped” her purse on the floor, got down on the floor to pick it up even though it was totally unnecessary, and then fumbled with the bag for a moment. Mickey couldn’t see the moment Karen brought out the ring, but he knew when it was because Mandy’s mouth dropped.

There was a moment where time sort of stopped, where it seemed like Karen and Mandy were frozen and neither would move; it was a moment of slight panic and fear. And then they were moving, kissing each other fiercely. The waiter said, “A successful night, then,” and left them, a large smile on his face, and Mickey felt a huge breath leave him.

Mandy was getting fucking _married_. Mickey wanted to cry so suddenly that he had to press his palms to his eyes.

Ian tightened his arms around Mickey’s waist and pressed his mouth to the back Mickey’s neck for a minute or two. “I’m so happy, Mickey,” he whispered, watching Karen put the ring on Mandy’s finger. “I’m so happy I could die.”

“I know,” Mickey said, although a small fraction of him felt sad, and he didn’t know why. “Do we go in?”

Ian linked his fingers through Mickey’s. “Fuck yes.”

Karen and Mandy were both crying but smiling, looking like even their smiles were far too small to really represent their happiness. Mickey hugged Mandy first, held onto her tight and had to force himself not to cry. “You fucking knew, didn’t you?” Mandy whispered into his ear.

Mickey pulled back and took her hand to look at the ring. “Of course I did,” he said, grinning.

“You’re such a bastard,” she said, laughing, and then pulled him in for another hug, kissing his cheeks. “Don’t fucking cry, you dick,” Mandy whispered, even though she was crying and her own voice was wobbly, and surprisingly, it made Mickey laugh.

“You give up the Milkovich name and I’ll hurt you,” Mickey said. Mandy rolled her eyes and punched him lightly, but then Ian was sweeping her up in a hug. Mickey watched Ian twirl her around in circles and then looked to Karen. “He treat you like that?” Mickey asked, grinning, and then Karen was laughing and hugging him too.

“I’m so happy for you,” he kept saying, over and over, into her ear. She was crying again, happy tears, and clutched him a little bit tighter.

Eventually, Mickey saw how Mandy and Karen kept gravitating towards each other after the hugging period was over, so Mickey told Ian to say goodbye and let them go home. Ian hugged them both and told them, “Have fun,” in a low voice. Mickey congratulated them both again, but Ian was already taking his hand and pulling him out of the patio.

The restaurant hadn’t been too far from their place, so they just walked home, Ian’s arm wrapped around Mickey’s waist. “I can’t believe this,” Ian said, biting his lip as he smiled. “God, I’m so happy.” When they rounded a corner, Ian pushed Mickey up against a building. The brick of the wall was hard along his back, but Ian was warm along his front, happy and carefree. The lights were on the other side of the block, casting the two of them in a small area of shadow, but Mickey could still see the sharpness of Ian’s jaw, the brightness in his eyes. Mickey leaned up and kissed Ian, missed his mouth slightly so that Mickey’s mouth dragged against the stubble on his lower jaw. Ian laughed, a little huskily, and grabbed Mickey’s chin with his hand. Mickey had this sudden, dumbass thought of, _Fuck, he’s strong_ , before they were kissing.

Mickey could never tire of kissing Ian. Their kisses were always a bit messy, quick, hungry. Mickey wasn’t sure if he was particularly good at kissing—he hadn’t kissed anyone before Ian—but that hadn’t seemed like it ever mattered to Ian. Ian had always been so desperate to kiss Mickey that it hadn’t left any room in Mickey’s mind to worry about whether he was good or not. Ian just liked kissing—kissing Mickey especially—and was always enthusiastic.

Mickey still couldn’t see that well, so when they pulled away, their noses bumped together awkwardly. Ian laughed, breath rushing over Mickey’s face, and his fingers felt their way over Mickey’s face. They lightly traced his nose and his mouth, and the corner of Ian’s mouth that could be seen by the light lifted into a smile when he touched Mickey’s bottom lip. Mickey titled his head up just as Ian leaned down to kiss him, and this time there wasn’t any mistake. Ian smiled into Mickey’s mouth when Mickey tightened his arms around his waist. Light, feathery kisses were pressed to Mickey’s cheek and jaw, and then Ian just rested his forehead against Mickey’s.

While Mickey played with the ends of Ian’s suit, Ian pressed a kiss to Mickey’s forehead. “Hey, Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever think about marrying me?”

Mickey’s fingers slipped over Ian’s shirt, and when he attempted to swallow, his mouth was a bit dry. “Ian . . .” He couldn’t really look at Ian. In fact, his mind was hardly even here—his mind was with Karen, at her apartment, with her voice saying _Don’t you ever think about marrying him?_ He didn’t want to be telling Ian this, not tonight, not when everything else was already so happy. “I don’t,” he said quietly.

Ian nodded. “Alright.”

Mickey’s stomach was twisting. “Ian, I’m sorry—”

Ian laughed. “Love, it’s _alright_ ,” he said, taking Mickey’s hand and playing with his fingers.

Mickey glared at him. “What the fuck did I tell you about calling me that?”

Ian bit his lip. His fingers traced Mickey’s tattoos. “I like it,” he whispered, smiling slightly.

“Yeah, well, I don’t.”

Ian gave Mickey a quick kiss. “It’s not about you hearing it or anything, remember? I just like saying it. It makes _me_ feel good.” He kissed Mickey before Mickey could argue with him, just barely touching his tongue to Mickey’s bottom lip. When he pulled away, Mickey had to search his brain for the conversation thread.

“And you?” he asked, lacing their fingers together. “Do you ever think about marrying me?”

Ian’s eyes were on their intertwined fingers, but he glanced up at Mickey, a soft smile on his lips. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yeah.” Ian brought Mickey’s hand up to his mouth and kissed his fingers. “Sometimes I think that we don’t need to be married yet.”

“And other times?”

“Other times . . . I already consider us married.”

Mickey pressed his lips together, unsure of how to feel about that—but then again, didn’t he already say to Karen that he and Ian were already committed and in love? Wasn’t that close to what Ian was saying?

“Ian—”

Ian’s phone went off. One ring. Ian went still for a moment before sighing, and when he glanced up at Mickey, his eyes were sad. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I guess there is no perfect night, huh?”

“Hey, it’s alright. Duty calls, or whatever,” Mickey said. Ian nodded, his other hand digging through his suit pocket for his phone, his fingers fumbling on the phone while he opened the screen. Mickey tightened his hold on Ian’s other hand, pulling Ian’s body closer to his—he didn’t quite want to leave this moment yet. Ian hadn’t moved or spoken either, and when Mickey looked at him, it was because he was frowning at his phone, the bright light of the screen casting wild shadows over his face. “Ian, what’s wrong?” Mickey asked, stomach already writhing.

Ian showed him the text message.

It said: _Similar case as Redwin Street_ with an address underneath it. And below that were four words: _bring your healing guy_.

-

“Do you know what’s happened?” Mickey whispered as he and Ian jogged up the steps. It had taken them only a little while to get to their apartment and change into their suits, and Ian continued to look nervous the entire walk over.

“They said it’s similar to Redwin Street, only they wanted me to bring you.” Ian shook his head. “I’m assuming it’s worse than Redwin Street, but I don’t know what to expect.”

Mickey noticed his clenched fists. “You’re thinking about what happened to Bolt.”

Ian opened up the door. He opened his mouth to answer, but then there was a faint, distant scream from a floor above. He shot Mickey a grim look, and they raced upstairs.

Bruiser was outside, arms crossed. When they came into sight, her hands uncrossed and flew to her sides, where her knives were strapped to her hips. She relaxed when they came into the light, although her hands rested on her knives.

“Is it bad?” Ian asked, voice low. There was another loud, sharp cry from the room. Bruiser clenched her jaw. “Bolt-style?”

She tilted her head. “Similar. It’s the injury that’s different, but otherwise the situation looks the same to me.”

“How many people?”

“Seventeen.” She jerked her head towards the door. “You go in. I’ll stay and keep watch.”

Mickey pushed through the door, Ian at his heels. They were in an apartment complex that was just being built, and this room was still slightly under construction. Mickey saw the body of a young woman first—she was lying flat on her back, but Mickey could hear her quiet mutters and cries. He went to her first, and that’s when he noticed the awkward bend of her arm. His footsteps faltered, and he looked back at Ian. “Go look at other people,” he told Ian, and Ian nodded and went to check on others.

She was scared, that much he could see. She flinched when she saw him, tried to drag herself away, but that only made her cry out in pain, touching her arm with her other hand. Mickey raised his hands. “Listen, I’m here to help you. I can help you,” he told her, voice calm and patient. “I can heal you. Will you let me?” There were tears in her eyes. “What’s your name?” he asked, quieter.

“S—Sasha,” she stammered. “Please—it hurts—”

“I can help you,” Mickey said quickly. “Will you let me?”

She hesitated, but then she nodded. Mickey took her good hand and held it between his own. The pain was immediate—not hard to find like the poison, but not overwhelming like Bolt’s had been. Her arm was broken, twisted at an odd angle. She’d been dumped here with a broken arm. Mickey’s power curled around the broken bone, almost unsure. “I can heal it,” he told her, licking his lips. “But mending bones . . . that shit hurts.”

Surprisingly, Sasha laughed at that. “Shit hurt being broken, too. Shit always hurts.” She closed her eyes and nodded. “Do it. If you really can, then do it.”

Mickey let his power go, almost encouraged it to be courageous, to not hold back. It wrapped around her bones. Her inflammatory response was already working around it, chemicals sifting through her blood, so Mickey picked up the pace. He knew a lot about bone healing—he’d broken many bones himself when he was younger, and he’d had a lot of broken bones in his own body. Mickey encouraged the healing tissues to form quicker—her bone was broken, and even though it was a large break, the pieces were fairly close together.

Mickey ignored how it was a clean break. He’d have to think on that later.

She cried out when the tissues began forming, but she didn’t start crying until the bones began to shift. Her feet stomped against the ground, and Mickey shouted at her. “Stop moving! You’ll only make it worse.” Sasha froze her legs, but she began biting her lip. Her cartilage was forming, weaker than actual bone but at least some type of support. Sweat was breaking out on her forehead, her neck and collarbones, and her lip was getting bloody. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “This is a—it takes weeks to heal bones, and I’m doing it minutes.” Eventually, her actual bone began replacing the cartilage—it helped that she was younger, her body responded better—and something in Mickey’s mind clicked.

He released his hands. “There,” he said, breathing heavily. He could feel sweat along his hairline.

Sasha tentatively put her arm down, tried to brace her weight, and immediately yelped. “That still hurts,” she said, rubbing at her arm.

“Your bones are sore—they were just broken and then regrown within minutes. Take your fucking time,” Mickey told her. He stood to look around the room, and Ian approached him. “What’s wrong?” Mickey asked, noticing Ian’s panicked look.

“Everyone—everyone here—” Ian paused. “They’re broken, Mickey. Wrists, fingers, arms, legs, collarbones. He—he fucking broke their bones and _left_ them here.” Ian shook his head. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

“I think he’s sending another message,” Mickey admitted. “That girl’s break—it was clean. He knew what he was doing. It was the same with Bolt. I’m not sure what his motives are for doing this, but he’s clearly trying to figure something out.”

“He’s getting research,” Ian said slowly. “He’s doing an experiment.” His eyes were wide when he looked at Mickey, pupils large. “He’s going to escalate this until people die, Mick.”

“There’s no time to think about that now,” Mickey said. He touched Ian’s elbow. “Take me to everyone with open fractures or anything close to it. They’re going to have more damage to their body than people with regular breaks.” Ian nodded and dragged him over to an older man in his fifties. Mickey could just see the bones of his wrists outside of his skin.

Mickey closed his eyes, touched the man’s hand, and got to work.

\--

Mickey was exhausted when Ian pulled him out of it. He was sweating like crazy, and the mask was making his scalp itch. Ian was speaking rapidly in his ear, but Mickey couldn’t understand his words, the slow grinding of bones taking up the space in his head. Eventually he was brought to when Bruiser slapped him. “Fuck!” he said, holding onto his cheek.

“You need to go,” she said, hands gripping her knives. “The police and ambulance are here. They will want to take you for healing them.”

Mickey turned to Ian, but Ian was pushing him towards the door. “You’re not coming with me?” he asked, panic settling in his body.

“I can’t this time,” Ian said. “There are too many weak people that need to be carried, but I’ll be fine. I’ve done this before, but you—you need to get out of here.”

“What? No, I won’t leave—” There was a loud crash from downstairs.

“The front doors,” Bruiser hissed. She muttered angrily in Portuguese, pulling the knives from her holsters. “You need to go right now, or I will fucking make you,” she told Mickey.

Ian dragged him to the front doors and pointed to the end of a hall. “Go,” he whispered urgently. “I’ll meet you at the house—I promise—and you get home immediately, alright?” Mickey nodded. Ian pressed a quick kiss to his mouth and then pushed Mickey down the hall. Mickey watched him turn back into the room and then took off running.

The rush was far worse this time, because Ian wasn’t there to guide him along. Mickey was already exhausted from all the healing, body weary and sore, and he had a headache coming. _You’ve been hit harder than that,_ he thought. _You’ve had broken bones and head wounds and blood everywhere and you still did what your father asked. You can do this._

So Mickey kept running. His sides were in stitches, and his lungs burned from the ache. He was healing himself, but much slower than he usually would. This wasn’t just identifying a couple of pills, or healing one man’s wounds—this was healing multiple people’s wounds, and broken bones at that. Mickey’s mind was still replaying the grinding sound of their bones. It was haunting.

He turned down a corner and obviously made a wrong turn, somewhere where he hadn’t been paying attention, because he was in a parking lot behind a restaurant. There was a couple of families making their way towards him, standing outside of a restaurant. It looked like a sort of celebration—a birthday party, or a team win, because they were standing around and hugging each other. Mickey leaned against the wall, hidden by two cars, and tried to catch his breath. Any police casing the area wouldn’t look for him so near to civilians, and these people hardly noticed him.

Mickey sat down, put his hands over his head, and focused on his breathing. His feet were sore from running, and his muscles would surely ache tomorrow. What if Ian was already home and waiting for Mickey? He needed to go, and the families were making their way closer to the parking lot Mickey was in. He needed to leave, now, before—

“Who are you?” a small voice asked.

Mickey froze, dug his fingernails into his palm and silently berated himself. He turned slowly, and there was a small girl near him, standing in a soccer uniform. When she saw his mask, she gasped. “No, wait, please,” Mickey said, reaching his hand out to her. She took a startled step back. In a moment of panic, Mickey ripped off his mask. “Hey, it’s just me. I’m a regular guy.”

She looked less scared and more intrigued now, cautiously stepping forward. “You’re a hero?” she asked.

“No, not really,” Mickey replied.

“But you’re a super,” she said.

Mickey sighed, nodding, and tried not to show panic at other families coming towards him.

“What’s your power?” she asked. “Do you have a hero name?”

“Not a hero,” he reminded her. “And, uh, I can—I can heal stuff.” Fuck, he shouldn’t have mentioned that. His heart was beating in his throat, his fingers twitching.

And suddenly the girl beamed at him. “That’s cool! Wanna see what I can do?” She stepped forward so that she was standing right next to him, and up this close, Mickey thought she looked about eight or nine. Mickey watched as she held up her two pointer fingers, three inches apart, and her brow furrowed in thought. A bright flash erupted from her fingers, and when it faded, Mickey saw a tiny bolt of lightning racing between her fingers, back and forth, like a ping pong match.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, leaning forward. “You can make lightning?” She put her hands down, nodding. “Well, your power is much cooler than mine,” he told her. “You deserve a cool hero name for your cool power.” Mickey racked his brains, but everything was dumb as fuck. Whatever, she was a child. “What about Lightning Strike?” he offered.

The girl grinned, nodding her head. “I like it!” She turned when a woman’s voice said, “Anna! Where are you?”

“That you?” Mickey asked. Anna nodded. “Look, I need you to make me a promise, okay? It’s a promise between supers.” Anna’s expression became very serious. “You can’t tell people what I look like, okay? You’ve seen my face. You have to promise not to say anything.”

Anna frowned. “Why?”

 _Fuck_ , he needed to sell this to her. “That was your mom, right?” he asked. She nodded. “Your mom is married, yeah? She has a partner. I’m in a similar situation. I’ve got a partner, too.”

“You have a husband like mommy?” she asked.

Mickey bit his tongue, as he figured that arguing would take up too much time. “Yes, I do. And if he finds out I’ve been practicing my power—he’ll be so angry—”

“He doesn’t _know_?” she whispered. “But mommy tells daddy everything.”

“See?” Mickey said. “But my—my husband, he doesn’t know, so if he found out, he’d be very angry. And if you told people what I look like, he’ll be angry with me. Understand?” Anna nodded again. “Okay, then, Lightning Strike. I need you to promise me to not tell anyone. Between us supers. We have to stick together, Lighting Strike. Please, promise me you won’t tell.”

He held out his hand. Anna considered it for a second before taking it. Her hand barely reached outside of Mickey’s palm. “Promise,” she said. Her hand shocked him, but he refused to pull back until she did.

“Anna!” her mother called again.

“Go,” Mickey told her. “Remember our promise, please.”

She nodded and got up, brushing her uniform. “Coming, mom!” she yelled, and she turned and left.

Mickey stood, staying low so that her parents didn’t see him. He walked out of there, hunched over, and once he hit a side street, began to ran towards home.

\--

The next day felt like a horrible, crashing deja vu. Mandy texted him at one in the afternoon, while he and Ian were both working at the dinner table and talking.

_Mands: check the news, now. any station._

Mickey dropped his phone on the table and found the remote. Ian was asking him a question, but he didn’t hear him, just continued to search for a news channel.

When he finally settled, there was an woman interviewing another man, with a white beard and wire glasses. Dr. Williford. He was an eximologist, as stated by the subtitle below his face, and he was reporting on last night’s hero adventure. She was asking him questions about powers. Specifically, healing powers. Specifically, Mickey.

“He healed bones, but he could also identify toxins in the body,” the woman was saying. “How do you account for this? What is his power?”

“You really can’t say unless you meet the subject,” Dr. Williford said. _Subject_. Mickey’s blood went cold. “It’s certainly true that he has some type of healing ability, but to what extent, we can’t say. Can he only heal bones? Can he heal more? How does healing correlate to identifying the toxins in people’s bodies, a skill he displayed at Redwin?” The doctor shifted in his seat, adjusted his glasses. “Sadly, there’s not much we know.”

“What do you know?” the interviewer asked.

“I’ve been looking into more interesting aspects of this new hero,” Dr. Williford said. “Mostly things people don’t usually look at. For instance, I found this small, throw-away comment during the Redwin notes. A witness mentioned that The Might took out his phone, made a call, and then this new hero appeared. It doesn’t seem like much, at first. Look deeper. The Department of Heroes didn’t have a clue who the new hero was. This hero was just a friend of The Might’s. This helps us in the eximology field, because it’s one of our interests in studying supers: how do they meet? Do they find each other and maintain friendships with them only? Do they stay friends with normal people?”

“ _Normal_?” Ian interjected angrily. “Who the fuck decides what’s normal?”

“This hero can represent so much in our field of study. Supers are among us, every day, hidden in our lives, and we don’t know it. They could have any power—small stuff like the power to type rapidly, but also scary powers, like super strength—and you don’t know when these powers will manifest. You don’t know if they have control or not. Now imagine a group of these young, uncontrolled supers, hanging out together. They could get tired of society, they could get tired of regular citizens. They wield so much danger by connecting to each other, the same way this new hero and The Might do. Supers know other supers, and this communication could potentially be dangerous to us all.”

Mickey clicked the remote randomly, frantic, he couldn’t hear anymore, and the channel changed to a cooking show. Mickey stared down at his hands—these hands that healed, that caused so much more than they meant—and watched as Ian’s freckled fingers took the remote from Mickey’s hand. Ian took Mickey’s hands, rubbing them between his own. “Sorry,” Mickey whispered.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Ian murmured.

“I’m—everything I do causes trouble,” Mickey said. “I find those toxins, and you’re under the radar for knowing me. I heal Bolt and the villain releases a message. I heal those people last night, and now every super, everywhere, is in danger simply because of my stupid fucking healing power.”

“No, they’re not,” Ian insisted. “Mickey, this society is slowly starting to hate supers. We’re _always_ in danger. You haven’t increased this in any way.” Ian kissed Mickey’s forehead. “Besides, all this shit they’re talking about? Mostly has to do with me calling you. So it’s my fault. I’ve put you in danger, against your wishes, and you have nothing to worry about.”

Mickey rubbed his thumb over the crease between Ian’s eyes. “Jokes on you,” he said quietly. “I’m always worried about you.”

\--

Mickey kept track of it the entire day while Ian worked on the reviews of the movies they watched. Ian was a bit frantic, because his editors had also asked him to do two articles in a Really Important Entertainment Magazine, and Ian was ripping his hair out because of it. Mickey secluded him to the dining room table and brought food and drinks to him at random periods so Ian didn’t have to get up.

Mickey tried focusing on his reports—you’d think Mickey would be far more interested in his reports, now that they were piling up with intriguing content—but he couldn’t focus. He kept checking his phone for any texts from Mandy telling him to look at the news, he kept checking social media for new reports. He was antsy. Ian had his headphones on and wasn’t paying attention to him, and Mickey could hear the music from his headphones.

Mickey noticed that he was biting his lip and forced himself to stop, running his tongue over his bottom. He needed to move, go for a run or punch something, before he burst.

He put his phone down and forced himself to work. The financial reports Karen gave him were interesting, but it also meant that it was long, and he wasn’t looking forward to doing it. Then again, if he didn’t do it now, he wasn’t looking forward to doing most of it later. He sighed, glancing up at Ian for a moment in hopes of a distraction (he didn’t get one), and then dove in.

He resurfaced an hour or so later when Ian put a glass of water down on the table near him. Mickey smiled in gratitude and checked his phone while he drank it. Nothing else seemed to pop up—the only new thing was the something called a Surge was trending on Twitter. Mickey checked it out and then stared in shock.

It was about him.

There were newspaper’s on Twitter linking their articles about _New Hero Identity_ , and when Mickey checked the articles, it was on him. One article began: _Only a few weeks ago, a new hero arrived on the scene that went unnamed . . . Today we announce the name of this new hero, The Surge, after an interview a little girl gave. The Surge’s first appearance was at Redwin Street—_

Mickey frowned. He clicked on the link for the interview. It was an interview on YouTube, and when the video began playing, the newscaster was interviewing Anna—Lightning Strike. “Oh, shit,” Mickey said out loud.

“You said you saw the new hero?” the interviewer asked.

Anna nodded, her parents standing right behind her. “He was sitting down when I saw him, and it seemed like he was really tired.”

“What did you do?”

“We just talked,” Anna said. “He gave me a nickname! He called me Lightning Strike!”

“That’s sweet, honey,” her mother said. “Did he tell you anything else? Did you get a good look at him?”

For a moment Mickey felt like he couldn’t breathe, watching Anna’s face scrunch up, but then she said: “He had a mask on, so I didn’t see his face. Otherwise he didn’t say much.” Anna’s father put his hand on Anna’s shoulder, and she glanced up at him. “Oh! He said he was married, and that his husband didn’t know about his powers.”

Her parents gasped a little, but Mickey choked and dropped his fucking phone on the table. It was loud enough to get Ian to look up at him, but Mickey felt numb.

He was just outed. On a fucking news channel—on national fucking television—by a nine year old girl. Holy fuck.

“Mickey, what’s wrong?” Ian asked, taking an earbud out of his ear and looking concerned.

Mickey couldn’t exactly speak, so he waved Ian over and continued watching. The interviewer was talking excitedly about the new hero being gay, but Anna didn’t seem interested. She returned back to what happened by saying, “He was really nice when he left” (Ian snorted) “and when he shook my hand, it felt all weird.”

“I could say the same for her,” Mickey muttered, as her mother asked, “Anna, what do you mean?”

Anna furrowed her eyebrows. “His hand was really warm, and it’s like I felt that warmth run through me. It was really powerful, and quick—”

“Like a surge,” her father finished.

Mickey sat back in his chair. “Are you fucking kidding me— _that’s_ where they got my name?”

“What are you talking about?” Ian asked. “Mickey’s, what’s going on?”

Mickey quickly showed Ian the article about him, and Ian’s eyes widened. “The Surge?” Ian read. He started laughing. “God, that’s so dumb.”

“Oh, because The Might is better?” Mickey snapped. “That’s not even the worst part, watch.” He clicked on the video again and told Ian to wait, because “You’ll know the bad part when you see it.”

Ian’s eyebrows raised when Anna said “his husband,” covering his mouth with his hand. When the video was over, Ian moved the video back until he was watching the part again.

“What are you doing?” Mickey asked, watching Ian go back to that spot in the video again.

Ian glanced at Mickey, smiling. “I kinda like the sound of that,” he said. “‘ _His husband_ ’ . . .” Ian's grin got larger.

“I just got outed by a little girl and you're stuck on _that_?” Mickey asked.

Ian laughed, dropping his head into his arm. “No, the fucking Surge got outed, to a husband that technically doesn’t exist . . . I think you're good. _Meanwhile_ , your actual boyfriend is appreciating the fact that you told some little girl that I was your husband.”

“It wasn't like that!” Mickey exclaimed. “It was—a metaphor or some shit—”

Ian burst out laughing and pulled Mickey forward, kissing him enthusiastically. Mickey made a noise of protest that was quickly lost in Ian's mouth. Mickey sighed, threaded his fingers through Ian's hair, and let Ian lead him to the couch.

“I like The Surge,” he whispered in Mickey's mouth. Mickey pushed at him, putting his hands to Ian's sides to try and wrestle him underneath Mickey, but Ian easily overpowered him.

“Fucking super strength,” Mickey muttered, gasping on the end when Ian sucked on a spot beneath his ear, and met Ian’s mouth again.

\--

A week later, a bomb went off in a club, killing ten and injuring more than thirty. It was designed that upon blowing, it would leave a skull behind—Mickey saw it on the wall as he healed people’s burns. His eyes were wet from the smoke, and the sound of people’s cries and screams kept clouding up his ears.

Who would do this? _Who would do this?_

Bolt and Ian were trying to get people out of the flames, out of the smoke. Plaster and wood were falling, there were still fires from where the bomb initially went off, and Mickey wasn’t healing this woman from any type of burn, but from a piece of metal pipe that was imbedded into her lung. Every breath she took was wet, and it made Mickey cringe.

Mickey couldn’t see from the smoke; his tears clogged up his vision. It didn’t matter, because all he needed to see were people’s wounds, inside their bodies, and his powers were his eyes for him that night.

Despite his efforts—despite all their efforts—six more people died, because they were trapped by debris, because they couldn’t find them, because they were too slow. That night, Ian held Mickey while he shook and scrubbed at his eyes until they weren’t red from smoke but from water getting into them, until Ian had to force Mickey’s hands away because Mickey wouldn’t stop scrubbing. Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist, and Mickey turned and buried his head in Ian’s shoulder.

“I can’t do this,” Mickey whispered, clutching onto Ian tighter.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mick,” Ian whispered back.

That night, the villain released another message to the Department of Heroes that only said two words.

_Human disaster._

* * *

**part iii. superpower (too much to bear)**

_“and i thought i could live without you; but together we’ve got plenty power and nothing i know can break us down, they can’t break us down”_

* * *

Mickey took the coffee cup that Mandy offered him, blowing on the steam as she sat down next to him on the couch. She was sipping quietly on her own coffee, obviously waiting for Mickey to talk. Ian was at work, and Karen was staying at her mother’s house overnight because Sheila had wanted to talk about the engagement.

Mickey stared at the ring on her finger. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t want to,” he said.

Mandy nodded, shifting closer to him on the couch. She clinked her mug against Mickey’s before taking a drink of her coffee. “It was just a favor,” he started quietly. “Ian was frantic, so I agreed. And then—it just snowballed from there. I didn’t want do—I _don’t_ want to. But people are getting hurt and . . . and their injuries aren’t something that I can just ignore.” Mandy raised an eyebrow at him, disbelieving, and Mickey made a frustrated noise. “I mean that Ian or Bruiser or Bolt couldn’t have fixed it. Only I could. And the thought of letting those people—” Mickey broke off, looking down at his coffee.

“Wow.” Mandy made a small _tsk_ sound. “You really are a hero.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not a hero.”

“Why? Because you haven’t registered with the Department of Heroes?” Mandy shook her head, making a loud slurping sound as she drank. “Argument of definition, really.”

“Can you please—” Mickey put his cup down, far too frustrated to be holding something that could potentially spill. “I don’t consider myself a hero. I still don’t. What I’m doing doesn’t feel like being a hero—”

“—only you dress up in a suit and you have a hero name and you save people, Mickey!” Mandy interrupted. She rubbed at her mouth. “We promised after Terry died—no more super shit. Terry had been enough, we’d dealt with him for eighteen years. After that, no more. We were _done_ , we weren’t gonna be heroes.” Mickey clenched his jaw and refused to look at her. “You’re just gonna throw that away? You’re gonna get involved in this shit?”

 _After Terry died_ , Mickey thought. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever tell her, that Terry’s death hadn’t been so much as a death as it had been a murder.

“I don’t want to be,” Mickey said quietly. “But I just can’t—I can’t just fucking drop out.”

Mandy was silent, glancing out the window and sighing. Mickey glanced at her, watched her profile. She’d put in her nose ring again, and she kept twisting her engagement ring around her finger with her thumb.

“You’re gonna get hurt, you know that?” Mandy finally said. Her voice was steady, but there was an underlying emotion as she talked. Mickey couldn’t tell if it was concern or anger. “You realize that, right? You can’t just keep fucking around with this. You’re gonna get hurt, and I can’t—we’re not there to protect each other. I can’t protect you from this.” She looked at Mickey then, and her eyes were watering. “Murphy’s fucking Law, Mickey.”

That’s what they’d done when they were little—Terry hit Mandy, and Mickey healed her bruises. Terry pushed them both around, and Mickey healed them. Once Mandy got her powers, she became the protector, constructing force fields around their rooms or beds. Terry would come home drunk, and Mandy would put a force field around her and Mickey’s room. Terry would start shouting, getting physical, and Mandy would make a wall between him and the rest of them.

“It’ll end soon,” Mickey said. “I don’t know when, or how, but I can feel it. It’s going to end soon.”

Mandy reached her hand out and grasped Mickey’s. Mickey laced their fingers together, and tried not to think of two kids hiding under a force field under the blankets of Mandy’s bed.

\--

Mickey paced around the living room, always keeping the grandfather clock in his eye. He’d never told Ian how he got the grandfather clock—he’d stolen it during one of his father’s runs and had taken it with him after Terry died—but now he kept watching the face. The small ticking noise the clock usually emitted was normally comforting, but now it seemed to be racketing up Mickey’s worry and anxiety.

Ian was supposed to be home by now.

Ian was supposed to be home by now, and he wasn’t. It was getting closer to eleven-thirty, and Ian’s hero shift should have been over at eleven. Ian wasn’t home, which was worrying, but what was most worrying was that he wasn’t answering any of Mickey’s calls. He was completely radio silent, and Mickey was going to do something horrible if Ian didn’t come home soon.

He called Lip instead.

“Oh, thank god,” Lip said when he picked up. “I was so fucking worried for a second.”

“What? Why?” Mickey asked, panic momentarily buried under confusion.

“Ian wasn’t answering my calls,” Lip said. “I was going to call you to see if he was home, but I see I don’t need to.”

Mickey closed his eyes, willing himself not to scream. “Lip, that’s why I called you,” he said in his steadiest voice. “Ian hasn’t come home. He’s not answering my calls.”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Fuck,” Lip muttered. “ _Fuck!_ You’re certain?”

“I wouldn’t be wearing a fucking hole into my floor if he was!” Mickey snapped. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have any contact with him? Phone, some type of tracking device—”

“Clause 17 under the privacy law,” Lip muttered. “You’re not allowed to track heroes because they’re all technically volunteers.”

“I thought the government didn’t actually follow the laws regarding heroes that well,” Mickey said bitterly.

Lip laughed in a way that seemed like one long exhale. “Yeah, that’s certainly a way of putting it.”

“You don’t have fucking anything?” Mickey persisted. “You can’t—call any of the other heroes or some shit, see if Ian’s with them?”

“I can try,” Lip said. Mickey heard typing on the other end, along with Lip’s quiet cursing. Mickey began his regular pacing path, watching the grandfather clock out of the corner of his eye. “Bruiser’s on the West Side,” Lip said suddenly, startling Mickey. “She said she’s not with Ian. Bolt isn’t on duty tonight—let me see about Icikill—”

“I don’t fucking care if Bolt’s at home sleeping in a onesie, wake up the fucking guy and ask him about Ian,” Mickey snarled.

Mickey heard the typing resume, but Lip said, “Look, Mickey, I know how you’re feeling—”

“You have no fucking _idea_ what this feels like, you piece of—”

“Ian’s my fucking brother!” Lip exclaimed. “You’re not the only person in this world who loves him, asshole. I know _exactly_ how you feel.” There was a tense pause between the two of them, Lip working and Mickey chewing on his lip. “Icikill doesn’t know, Bolt told me he didn’t see Ian tonight and to fuck off, and Brainstorm said she’s been across Emerald Place and East Side and hasn’t seen him.” There was a sudden crashing sound from the other side of the line. “ _Fuck!_ Where the fuck is he?”

“I’m so scared,” Mickey whispered. “You know what I want? A fucking cigarette. I haven’t wanted one since I fucking quit. That’s a sign that I’m fucking doomed.”

“Listen, Mickey, this is what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna stay at home while I try to figure out some way of contacting him or finding him, got it?”

“So I get to become even more anxious while you actually fix stuff?”

Lip groaned. “You’re staying there in case Ian _does_ come home, and that way he doesn’t have to worry about you. I’m going to work. That way one of us is searching and the other is waiting, and both decisions are smart.” Lip paused, and Mickey was sure it was for emphasis. “You’ll stay there?”

“Fine,” Mickey bit out. He could see the validity in Lip’s point, but Mickey just wanted to run outside and search for Ian himself. He was tired of waiting around.

“You better call me when he comes home,” Lip said.

“I will,” Mickey said. He licked his lips. “And if he doesn’t?”

Lip inhaled sharply. “Then both of us will have a sleepless night.”

\--

Around eleven-fifty, there was a weak knocking on the door. Mickey looked at the door, waiting for another knock. There wasn’t, and Mickey suddenly wondered if he heard the knock at all. Ian wouldn’t knock so quietly—what if it was someone else, someone dangerous? _They’re going to go through him to find you_ , Karen had said. Mickey went to the closet and took out the bat— _I haven’t held a weapon in over four years_ , Mickey thought—and then slowly crept towards the door. He checked the peephole first, but he couldn’t see anything out in the hall. His heart jumped to his throat, and then he glanced down.

The bat dropped from his fingers, and Mickey fumbled with the latches on the door. When the door opened, Ian collapsed only a little further inside, catching himself on his elbow before crying out in pain.

“Holy shit. Oh my god, _Ian_.” Mickey reached forward to help Ian up, putting his hand on his shoulder, but Ian’s shirt was torn, and Mickey’s hand touched Ian’s skin.

It was like his body was on fire. Mickey’s body was paralyzed, pain lacing his entire back and front, running through his veins. His body was so weak—or was it Ian’s?—and Mickey couldn’t tell the difference between their heartbeats. He stumbled back, the link between them gone so suddenly that Mickey felt dizzy. “Ian, what happened?” Mickey croaked. He took Ian by the arm where his suit wasn’t torn, but it was wet. Mickey’s heart was beating in his throat, and when he helped Ian up and into the apartment, his fears were confirmed—Ian’s suit was soaked in blood.

Ian was only standing for a second before collapsing into Mickey’s arms. His fingers touched Mickey’s skin, and Mickey was transported again. Mickey gasped and jerked away, but Ian’s hold was tight. Mickey had been in pain before, from all the shit he did for his father, but he’d never been close to dying. Ian’s entire body was leaning that way, blood oozing from his body, energy draining from him in waves. His life was leaving him—albeit slowly—but Mickey could feel it.

Mickey closed the door, shifted Ian’s weight, and then attempted to walk them to the bathroom. Ian moaned, grip tightening on Mickey so hard he was sure Ian was going to break a rib, and tripped on every step. Mickey kept encouraging him, telling him he could make it, only a little farther, please, Ian, please, make this for me, I need you, I need you, please, only a little more.

When Ian sat on the toilet, he opened his eyes. “No, Mickey, please,” he whispered. “I need to sleep, I’m so tired.”

 _You’ll go to sleep and won’t wake up_ , Mickey thought. He told Ian instead: “You need to clean your wounds, Ian.” Mickey considered the shower, but thought it might be too harsh on Ian’s skin. He ran a bath instead, making sure the water wasn’t too hot. Ian was leaning back against the toilet, eyes closed, and Mickey got a good look at him in the light. His face was bruised, blood smeared across some areas, and his hair seemed matted with blood, making it even more red. His suit was torn in some areas, long scratch marks or cuts down his side, and his suit seemed to cling to his skin from blood. Mickey touched Ian lightly, not on the skin, and Ian opened his eyes. “I need to get you out of this suit,” Mickey whispered. Ian nodded wearily, but he didn’t move. Mickey wanted to ask him to help, but eyed the suit instead. It was already wet and torn, so Mickey attempted ripping it further, tearing it off Ian’s body instead. Ian cried out when some parts, which had been almost dried onto his body, were torn off, but it was much quicker than regular shedding would have been. Mickey got to Ian’s stomach and noticed a small, ragged role.

“Are those—are those bullets?” Mickey whispered fiercely. “Ian, what the fuck happened?”

Ian made a small choking sound. “He—he caught me.”

Mickey froze. “ _What_?” Then he shook his head. “Never mind for right now, get in the tub.” Ian nodded, and on a last minute thought, Mickey shucked off his own clothes and helped Ian stand. Ian’s pain was still staggering, overwhelming, but Mickey forced it down, focused on Ian, still alive and breathing and _with Mickey_ , and managed to get Ian to the tub. Mickey got in first, laying back against the wall, and Ian lowered himself in afterwards, biting his lip at the pain of the water meeting his skin. It was slow getting him in, but eventually he settled back against Mickey’s chest.

There was no avoiding it now; Mickey opened up his powers into Ian’s body and gripped the sides of the tub so tightly his knuckles went white. Ian’s body was a fucking devastation, cuts all over his body and blood loss making him dizzy. There were three bullets wounds in his body, and Mickey focused on healing those first. He’d only felt this connected to Ian’s body one time before: when they first met and Mickey had had to save him. The water helped a little, scrubbed the blood off of Ian’s body, cleaned out Ian’s wounds so that Mickey’s powers could easily sweep in and heal the trauma, and relaxed Ian’s body. “What happened?” Mickey asked once his mind was clear enough. “You said he—he caught you?”

Ian nodded. When he spoke, his voice was still weak. “Yes, he’d waited for me at my call spot. I—I think he set it up, somehow.” A coughing fit interrupted him. “He strapped me down to some table, began—” Ian stopped, and his hands found Mickey’s. Mickey loosened his grip and opened his palms up to let Ian slide his fingers through Mickey’s. “He began what he did. I think he underestimated me. I don’t just have super physical strength, I also have super mental strength. At first, the shit he did to me—it didn’t matter. I couldn’t feel it, because I turned my mind away. And then when he wasn’t paying attention, when he was mad that I was unaffected, I used my strength to break free of my bonds. He wasn’t paying attention, I knocked him about, and then I left.” Ian traced some of the wrinkles on Mickey’s hands. Mickey watched the scars on Ian’s wrists appear and disappear as he turned his arms over. “I think he got mad at that, so he called the police.”

Mickey caught Ian’s hands in his. “The bullets are from the fucking _police_?”  

“Maybe he called a robbery,” Ian muttered, “or maybe they knew I was a hero. I don’t know. But they shot at me. One guy got a taser in me, but it hardly harmed me. And then there was—the car.”

“The car,” Mickey repeated. He felt numb, and that wasn’t only his absence of self. He was tired. Fuck, he was tired. He clutched a bit harder onto Ian’s hands, checked his body over. The bullet wounds were taking a bit longer to heal, but it was clear that Ian’s story was partly true—the villain didn’t have Ian for long, because all the other wounds healed over pretty quickly. The bruises on his body must be from the car Ian mentioned—fuck, Ian had been hit with a car, and he still came home, he still walked all that way.

“We’re sitting in dirty, bloody bathwater,” Ian muttered.

“I don’t think hygiene is of my utmost importance, you dick,” Mickey snapped. Then, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’ve been so fucking stressed out, you have no idea what it was like.”

Ian nodded and kissed Mickey’s palm. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Not your fault.” Mickey nuzzled at Ian’s hairline, silently checking for head wounds, and pressed a kiss to the back of Ian’s neck. “Let’s get out,” Mickey murmured. Ian squeezed Mickey’s hands for a moment and then stood, shakily, legs wobbling, holding onto Mickey’s hands. He stood from the tub and grabbed a towel, Mickey following his steps. Mickey watched the tub drain as he grabbed his phone and sent a quick text to Lip: _Ian’s home. Very injured, I’m healing him, going to bed immediately. Will talk tomorrow_.  

Mickey led Ian to the bed, holding his hand, and they collapsed into the bed, naked, while Ian began shaking. Mickey pressed up behind him, moving as close as he could, and pulled the covers up over them. Ian was still shivering, body shaking, and then he turned over, wriggling in Mickey’s arms. He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist, burying his head in the curve of Mickey’s neck, and pressed tighter, body still shaking. It wasn’t until then that Mickey realized that Ian was crying.

“Shh, shh,” Mickey whispered, carefully running his hands up Ian’s back, mindful of his wounds. His powers were still doing a run through Ian’s body, meticulously finding anything wrong. “It’s okay, you’re home now. I’m here, Ian, I’m here.”

“I thought—” Ian gasped, gripping Mickey tighter. “Fuck, I thought I might not see you again, I thought everything was over and I was going to die without telling you I loved you again or—I kept going, that was the only thing that kept me going, was coming home, was you—”

Mickey hushed him, cradling his head, and let Ian cry into Mickey’s neck, sobs heaving his body. “I’m sorry, I should have been there,” Mickey murmured. “You’re okay now. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Mickey kissed the top of Ian’s head. “Sleep, Ian. You need to rest. Tomorrow we’ll take the day off, rest some more. You’re safe now. It’s okay.”

Eventually, Ian did fall asleep. But Lip was right on the earlier account: it was a sleepless night for Mickey.

\--

Mickey woke up and immediately wished he hadn’t. His body felt sore—which, if he thought about it, he knew wasn’t from himself, but from continuing to heal Ian overnight—and the sun was far too bright. Ian was already awake, as Mickey could feel his fingers tracing Mickey’s shoulder blades.

Mickey’s arm was sore too. Ian must have been using it as a pillow as he slept. Mickey flexed his hand, stretching out the muscles, and Ian murmured a small, “Hey, you’re awake.”

“Wish I wasn’t,” Mickey muttered, but stretched and leaned forward (about an inch) to kiss Ian.

Ian was frowning slightly when Mickey pulled back. “Last night was a mess,” Ian said quietly. “I mean, that was fucking—” Ian closed his eyes, sighing. “That was just absolute shit.” Ian moved his fingers to play with Mickey’s hair. “The thought of going to work right now makes me want to cry.”

“Hey, remember what I said? We’re resting the entire day. That means no work,” Mickey said.

“The annual blockbuster magazine is coming out,” Ian said. “There’s going to be a huge party thrown at the office in a week or so . . . and I have to go to the company to help set up and—”

“Not today,” Mickey said firmly. “Seriously, Ian, we’re just resting today.” Mickey thought about last night and the conversation he’d had with Lip. “We’re also probably gonna have a long talk with your family.”

“Already ahead of you,” Ian said, smiling. “Fiona called, we’re having a dinner tonight.”

“I’m coming?”

“You’re coming,” Ian confirmed, “just like you’re coming to the celebratory party at my work for the release of the magazine.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Do I have to wear a suit?”

“Of course.”

“Fuck.”

“Hey!” Ian kissed Mickey lightly on the mouth. “I like you in a suit.”

“You’ve seen me in a suit pretty regularly over these past few months,” Mickey said.

Ian laughed. The sunlight caught his hair and made it seem even more red than usual. Mickey remembered how the blood from last night had made his hair redder and shivered. “What, the hero suits? That’s totally different!”

“Seriously? Those hero suits are skin-tight! They’re way better than regular suits.”

Ian snickered into Mickey’s neck, shifting his legs between Mickey’s. “I think regular suits are sexier.” Mickey groaned, moving onto his back. Ian easily followed him, resting his head on Mickey’s chest. “I feel better,” Ian added. “My body’s a little tired, but compared to last night, it’s definitely better.”

“Last night, where you were shot at and cut apart?” Mickey asked. “I definitely hope so.”

“Was it like—” Ian coughed. “Was it like before, at college—”

“No,” Mickey said quickly. “No, fuck, it wasn’t like that. Different fears, different reactions. No.” Mickey kissed the top of Ian’s head. “Stop worrying about that with me, okay? I’m good."

Ian nodded. “Is it bad if I go back to sleep?” he murmured. “We can get up and do stuff later.”

Mickey agreed, and reminded himself silently to check on how much Ian slept and when the last time Ian took his meds was. Then he allowed himself to sink into the warmth and softness of the bed and Ian’s body.

\--

Mickey watched Ian play video games against Lip and Debbie, the three of them screaming and shouting at each other. The beer in Mickey’s hand was getting pretty warm, and it was still remotely full, because Mickey was wary of getting drunk after the last twenty-four hours.

“Hey.” Mickey turned and dipped his head in greeting to Fiona, who had been checking on dinner in the oven. Mickey was leaning against the wall next to the stairs, eyes on the Gallagher siblings. Fiona stood by him, a beer in her own hand, and smiled at her younger siblings. “It’s nice, having them all back here. I miss them so much.” She took a drink, shrugging her shoulders. “But I also know they’re happy where they are.”

“I know Ian misses all of you guys,” Mickey said. “He tries to call as much as he can.”

“I know.” Fiona smiled wistfully, eyes on her siblings again. “Mickey,” she said. Her voice was suddenly lower, full of worry. “Something happened to Ian, didn’t it?” Mickey glanced at her, stricken. Her face softened. “You haven’t taken your eyes off Ian the entire night,” Fiona said, smiling a bit sadly, “and I just get the feeling that something bad happened.”

Mickey hesitated, cutting his eyes to where Ian was laughing at something Debbie said. Fiona followed his gaze. “I know Ian doesn’t want us to know,” Fiona said quickly. “I know we worry too much, that we pressure him, about his bipolar disorder and the hero stuff . . .” Fiona licked her lips. “But we’re his family too, Mickey. He’s my brother—fuck, he’s practically my kid. If something bad happened to him . . .”

Mickey sighed, shifting his body towards Fiona. “He got hurt last night,” Mickey said. “It was . . . it was really bad. I healed him, but he’s still a bit weak.”

“What happened?”

Mickey considered what he should tell her—had she figured out that he was The Surge? “There’s a new villain,” Mickey said. “He caught Ian.” Mickey grimaced, thinking of Ian’s wounds. “Shit was bad, but he’s better now. I know you want to know more,” Mickey said, as Fiona opened her mouth to speak, “but trust me when I say, you’re better off knowing the vague shit.”

Fiona took a long drink of her beer, her shoulder brushing Mickey’s. “Carl got suspended from school,” she said. Mickey glanced at her, surprised.  Fiona laughed when she saw Mickey’s expression. “Yeah, I know. There were a couple of kids, mean kids, almost those typical jocks, you know? They were messing with this skinny kid at school that doesn’t talk much, keeps to himself. They kept taking his stuff and passing it around, making sure he couldn’t reach it, holding it above his head, throwing it around.” Fiona shook her head, taking another drink. “Carl was walking by with his friends. He—he used his powers. Carl summoned all the kid’s stuff to him, made his friends hold it. The skinny kid came over to them, you know, grateful that Carl got all his fucking stuff, but then the other kids started coming over, too. So Carl—” Fiona sighed. “Carl left his friends and the kid’s stuff and went behind all the jocks. He summoned all their backpacks, their shirts. They couldn’t _move_ , Mickey. He was so powerful that he was dragging kids backwards by their backpacks. One kid began to choke because his shirt was so tight around his throat.”

“Holy shit,” Mickey said. “I didn’t know he was that powerful.”

“I didn’t either,” Fiona said, voice dejected. “The principal—it was all bullshit. Carl hadn’t hurt anybody, except for that one kid who choked, but it wasn’t like Carl kept choking him. Bonnie and Little Hank, they yelled at Carl to stop, and he did. Bonnie said it only lasted about two minutes as a whole. The principal suspended Carl for two weeks. It’s not because he hurt some kid, it’s because he’s a fucking super. Those other kids? The ones who were bullying the kid in the first place? They got three days detention.”

“Society is turning against us,” Mickey whispered, thinking about all the shit Ian’s told him about the laws in place and how they’re not followed. “They don’t trust us as much anymore.”

“I’m scared, Mickey,” Fiona said. “Ian’s getting his ass kicked as a hero, and I can’t protect him. It’s hard enough taking care of my kids as my kids, but with powers too? How am I supposed to protect them against themselves, against people who’ll punish them for being who they are?”

Mickey thought about his father, and all the shit his father did to punish Mickey for being gay. How did Mickey protect himself? “Tell them to fight it,” Mickey said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s tiny, if it’s internal. You have to believe in yourself.”

Fiona nodded, finishing off the rest of her beer. Mickey admitted to himself that he wasn’t going to be finishing his any time soon and put it down on the kitchen counter. “Mickey,” Fiona said from behind him. Mickey looked to her, where she was still leaning against the wall and staring at her siblings. “I don’t think you know how grateful I am that Ian met you. All the things you’ve done for him . . .”

They were interrupted when Carl came down the stairs, a blonde girl right behind him. Mickey recognized her as Bonnie. They greeted Fiona, and then Carl turned to Mickey. “Play Bonnie and I next?” he asked, nodding his head towards the living room, and Mickey smiled and agreed.

\--

Suits just weren’t Mickey’s thing. Regular suits, at least, because Mickey had gotten used to supersuits. He felt uncomfortable in suits, like he didn’t actually belong. He was always putting his hands in his pockets, so that people didn’t see his tattoos, because that just—who wore a suit and also had fuck u-up on his hands? Ian was pretty comfortable in them since he’d been wearing them for a while, and he always told Mickey that he looked fine.

The only drink they were serving at this (extremely wealthy and elaborate) celebratory party for the release of the magazine were tall flutes of champagne, and all the schmoozing and fake smiles were making Mickey annoyed.

“There are so many pretentious people here,” Mickey whispered to Ian, after another couple congratulated Ian on his article (and warily eyed Ian’s arm around Mickey’s waist). “I’ve never wanted to punch so many people in my entire fucking life, and I went to high school.”

Ian laughed, accepting a flute of champagne from a nearby waiter. “Please don’t punch anybody,” he said. “I really don’t want to lose my job.”

“I’ll hold back, but only for you,” Mickey said, rejecting the champagne with a small wave of his hand.

“How romantic,” Ian said, grinning.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Seriously, look at you. How you woo me. Those are some serious courting skills.” Ian’s grin only got wider, eyes bright, and then he noticed something behind him, and his smile dropped a tiny fraction. “Someone’s coming to meet us,” Ian whispered, “and you may or may not recognize him. Stay calm, don’t give anything away.”

Mickey frowned. “What—”

“Ian! It’s good to see you,” a voice said behind them. Mickey stiffened, tightening his grip around Ian’s waist. He met Ian’s eyes—Ian was smirking at him, that fucking bastard—and let Ian steer them a bit so they were facing a couple, a dainty, modestly dressed woman on the arm of a man with dark skin. “You must be Ian’s partner,” the guy was saying.

“Mickey,” Ian said as introduction. “Mickey, this is Malik and his wife Ethel.”

Mickey reached out and shook Malik’s hand, and once their skin touched, allowed his power to make contact for a moment. Mickey was right—his power recognized Malik’s body. “Nice to meet you, Malik,” Mickey said, and when he met Malik’s gaze, dipped his head down. _Bolt_ , he thought, and almost as if he heard Mickey, Malik grinned. Mickey then reached over and shook Ethel’s hand. Her hand felt small and delicate in Mickey’s. “Ian didn’t tell me he knew you,” Mickey said to Malik, hoping it was as vague as possible.

Malik laughed. “And I didn’t know Ian was quite _so close_ with you, but many of things are making a lot more sense now.”

Ethel leaned in a little towards Mickey. “I want to thank you for helping him,” Ethel said, voice low so people passing by couldn’t hear. “I know what you did. I’m afraid to think of what would have happened if you weren’t there.”

Mickey felt his throat close up, and he tried to talk without his voice wobbling. “Of course,” he said. “Yeah, yeah—of course.” He shifted closer to Ian’s body, feeling uncomfortable. Mickey was good at playing pretend, but it was Ian he worried about. Then again, Ian was mostly bad when he was thrust into those types of situations suddenly, and Ian had known Malik worked here for a long time. “What do you do?” he asked Malik. “I don’t know which area you write for.”

“I write in the social justice area,” Malik said. “I had an article in this magazine about how well media was in representing people who weren’t white, straight, etc., as well as examining other aspects of media.”

“It’s very good,” Ethel jumped in. “I’m excited to read yours too, Ian. I heard you got two articles this time!”

“Yeah, I did,” Ian said, smiling at her. “It sounds so happy now, but it was extremely stressful during the time.”

“You could say that again,” Mickey commented, thinking about how Ian was basically pulling his hair out the last couple of weeks.

“I remember when I had two articles in last year’s magazine,” Malik said, looking to Ethel. “I practically locked myself in the study for days. I think I grew a beard. Our kids hardly recognized me.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Ethel said, laughing and hitting him lightly on the chest. “You weren’t nearly that bad.”

Ian and Malik got caught up in a conversation about writing for the company, so Mickey focused on Ethel, asking her what she did. “I teach kindergarten at a local school,” Ethel said, smiling.  “I really like kids, I get along with them easily, and teaching them at such a young age is so important. I really love my job.”

Mickey grit his teeth at the small talk, but didn’t try to interrupt her. She was so sweet, Mickey felt like he had to make sure he wasn’t being too rude or didn’t say anything explicit. She asked him about his job, so Mickey talked about Amanda’s company and what he did, and he was just talking about who Karen was and why working with her was so great when he felt Ian’s phone vibrate in his pocket. Ian halted his conversation with Malik, apologizing, but then Malik was also pulling his phone out of his pocket. Mickey’s breath caught in his throat, watching the two of them, _heroes_ , answering a call.

 _Not tonight_ , Mickey thought. _Don’t take this away from Ian._

Ethel turned to Malik and asked him, “What’s wrong, sweetie?” as he frowned at his phone, and then he took a deep breath and put his phone back in his pocket. Ian did the same thing, and there was a minute or two where they were sizing each other up.

Ian glanced around at the party. “Do you think that we can leave without causing some type of scene? People won’t notice our absence?”

Malik’s gaze also followed around the room. “Definitely not the three of us.”

If Mickey had been drinking the champagne, he definitely would have choked on it. “ _Three_?” he repeated.

Malik’s gaze turned to him. “It’s another Redwin Street,” he said.

“Is that the code for shit like that now?” Mickey said, a bit snappish. “Is that code for ‘ _bring Mickey to the scene_ ’? Redwin Street?”

They all plastered on fake smiles—even Ethel, who caught onto what was happening quickly—when another couple strolled by, introducing themselves as the Lishmans and offering congratulations. Mrs. Lishman looked extremely bored, always waving for more champagne flutes, while Mr.—"Dr., but I'll forgive you," he'd said—Lishman talked with Ian adamantly, although his eyes continuously flicked to Mickey. When they left, Malik and Ian turned to each other quickly. “It has to be you,” Malik said. “How suspicious would it be if I left my wife here? Why would she be here in my name when I was already present?”

“And it would make more sense if I left with him?” Ian whispered fiercely.

Mickey caught onto Malik’s train of thought. “We’re a couple,” Mickey said, looking to Ian. “If we wanted to leave . . . well, it could work. I could want to . . . _congratulate_ you for your work.” Mickey raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Then Malik could spread a small rumor as to why we left. People would believe that.”

Ian ran a hand through his hair. “So we’re going to embarrass me at my job. Wonderful.”

“Everyone’s already getting drunk from the champagne, and people will be too busy celebrating the release of the magazine to notice,” Ethel said. “Besides, a ton of other couples will be doing the same, you’ll only do it earlier. It’s the perfect plan.”

Ian looked back at Malik, who nodded his head, and then looked desperately at Mickey. “It makes sense,” Mickey said quietly. “You know it works better than any other solution.”

“Go,” Malik said. “I’ll cover for you. If you can make it back, all the better.”

Ian closed his eyes for a moment—no doubt trying to relish this moment, trying to pretend for a second that he didn’t have to leave—before nodding his head sharply and taking Mickey’s hands. “I’ll see you,” he told Malik.

Malik wrapped his arm around Ethel’s shoulders. “Stay safe, you two.”

As they were leaving, Ian kept his face close to Mickey’s ear, and Mickey bit his lip as he grinned so that anybody walking by them knew _exactly_ what they wanted to do to each other. “How are we even going to change?” Mickey asked as they pushed through some doors.

Ian’s lips brushed Mickey’s ear. “I have our suits in the car.”

“The _car_?” Mickey said. A man walking by shot them a look, noticed how close they were, and grimaced. Good—more for Malik’s rumors. “Even mine?”

“Even yours,” Ian said, sliding his hand up Mickey’s suit. “You always have to have your suit close, Mick.”

They both changed in the car, and Mickey would have laughed at the two of them in the backseat, flinging clothes everywhere, if nerves weren’t fluttering in his stomach. When they were fully dressed and masked, Ian took Mickey’s hand and led him down an alley and through the streets.

They arrived at an apartment complex, one that had just been recently built and was asking for buyers. “Brainstorm called it in,” Ian said as they ran up the stairs. “Said she was walking by the apartment, felt that they were unconscious, and called it in.”

“She—she felt that they were unconscious?” Mickey said.

“Brainstorm can feel other people’s minds, manipulate them,” Ian said. “She’ll probably get into your mind when you meet her, and you might feel it. It doesn’t matter. She won’t tell anyone, and she won’t manipulate yours.” They arrived at the third story, where a small figure was standing by a door. Mickey felt the wisp of something touch his mind before leaving. Mickey shook his head, following Ian closer, and was shocked to see how truly short Brainstorm was.

“What’s wrong with them?” Ian asked as he neared.

Brainstorm shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. Mickey jolted—her voice was high-pitched, child-like. She’s young, Mickey realized. She had to be a teenager, maybe younger. What the fuck was she doing as a hero at that age? “They’re different than unconscious people. I can still touch people’s minds when they’re unconscious, because you can still dream. But they . . . they felt almost empty to me. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Ian nodded and went in, Mickey and Brainstorm following. Mickey felt uncomfortable with her trailing behind him, especially with that power at such a young age. “Don’t worry,” Brainstorm said suddenly. “I won’t hurt you.”

Mickey glared at her, then looked into the empty apartment. There were four people lying on the ground, completely still, and they were laid out in a square. Ian and Mickey looked at each other, and for a small moment when their eyes connected, Mickey felt less worried, less scared. Ian gestured Mickey forward, and Mickey clenched his fists and went to examine them.

There were two men and two women there, arranged in a square so that their heads were always by someone else’s feet. It was an uneven square—one man and a woman were shorter than the other two—but whoever had done this ( _the villain_ , Mickey reminded himself) had extended the women’s hair to make up for it.

Mickey was scared, hands shaking. Before, the people had at least been conscious. He remembered the poison in the bodies at Redwin Street, remembered how he couldn’t heal the poison because the body was fighting back. He hoped it wasn’t a similar case.

He kneeled down and touched one of the women’s hands.

Mickey had never felt anything like it. A wave of darkness swept upon him, suffocating him and sweeping the air from his lungs, and a chill settled over his entire mind. He only had half a mind to pull away, but he managed to, gasping and coughing at the lack of air. Ian rushed forward, his hand on Mickey’s shoulder and asking questions that Mickey couldn’t answer. Brainstorm answered Ian: “His mind was just overtaken,” she said, her voice shaky. “It was so dark—so cold, even in his mind—I don’t think he should do it again.”

Ian was shaking Mickey. “What happened?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

Mickey swallowed, wishing he had water. His mouth felt dry. “She’s dying,” Mickey gasped.

Ian stilled. “What?”

“She’s dying. Her—her lifeforce is so weak, and death is so strong in her body, it feels like her body is giving up.” Mickey coughed again, straightening his back. “I think they all are.”

Ian said, “We need to get them to a hospital—”

“No!” Mickey interrupted. “No, they won’t make it. They’ll die. He left them so close to death, specifically—”

“Specifically?” Brainstorm repeated.

“—and they’ll die by the time we get them to a hospital,” Mickey continued. He looked up at Ian, desperately, hoping he could convey his intention by his face. “Ian, I have to.”

Ian’s chin and jaw were defined, so Mickey could see the angry clench of his jaw, the way Ian lifted his chin stubbornly. Ian didn’t like it, but he was going to allow it. Mickey took Ian’s hand and kissed it, quickly, before reaching for his suit.

“What are you doing?” Brainstorm asked. “Your movements don’t match your thoughts.” Mickey almost laughed. Mickey’s thoughts must be scattered, broken, vacant, while his actions were deliberate and focused.

“He’s removing part of his suit,” Ian said, voice tight and miserable. “They have to be touching his skin.”

Mickey finally worked the top of his shirt off, stopping at the waist, and motioned for Ian to come over. “I need you to put their hands on my chest,” he told Ian. “Once the first one is on, I won’t be able to do the rest myself. Call an ambulance, get them over here immediately. I should be able to hold onto them until the medics arrive.”  

Ian nodded. “I don’t like this,” he whispered as Mickey laid down in the middle of the square. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Mickey privately agreed, but he just nodded towards the man to his left. “I’m ready,” he told Ian, feeling anything but. There were seconds between Ian moving to take the man’s hand and the man’s hand actually touching Mickey’s chest, seconds that Mickey could have said something— _should have_ said something—to Ian, but instead he was quiet, bracing himself, for that feeling to suffocate him again.

The blanket feeling was on him again, lungs compressed, the minute their skin touched. Ian said something that Mickey couldn’t hear, and all he could hear was blood rushing, rushing, in his own body and in the man’s body, ice clutching at Mickey body and freezing any movement he might have had. His brain felt icy, and he tried focusing on helping the man—boost his immune system, send his power throughout his body to try to figure out what was wrong—but then another person’s hand touched his chest.

Mickey’s body seized, raising slightly, and he’d never felt anything like this, this pain pulling at his lungs. At his _heart_. His heartbeat stuttered, trying to support two other lives, his powers racing and confused and unsure where to go. His mind, Mickey thought, rather wildly, that’s where he had to focus. Keep his mind clear and he could control his powers. He thought of his powers, the way they worked and felt, and sent it through one of the people’s body—a woman. Everything about her was dark, fading. Her mind was absent, heartbeat getting weaker and weaker, her cells not responding. Mickey sent his powers further, trying to reach the problem within her, but he couldn’t find the source. She was simply _dying_ , there wasn’t any cause that Mickey could find.

Another hand touched his chest, and Mickey’s body was so focused on the other two—he was so intertwined with the other two—that he couldn’t move, could hardly twitch a muscle. It felt like he was fraying apart at the seams, thoughts in his mind scattering as quickly as they formed, heartbeat focused on supporting three other lives— _one last one_ , Mickey thought, _one last one_ , and then her hand touched his skin.

Mickey had felt suffocation before—he knew what it felt like for his lungs to be on fire, he knew how fear entered the body when you felt close to death. This wasn’t anything like it. This type of suffocation just felt as though it was taking the breath from Mickey’s lungs the minute air entered them, leaving him empty, choking. He didn’t quite know what he was doing—the feeling of death, that darkness, was so severe and demanding, that Mickey could hardly focus his thoughts. He didn’t know what his powers were doing, only that he knew it began to work—one of the women choked, gasping, her muscles regaining their memories and moving. The rest began to work in similar ways—organs began functioning at a faster pace, air didn’t hurt their lungs so much, muscles began retaining their memories again. Their lifeforces began to increase, slightly, but they were living, their bodies stabilizing, and Mickey continued to push his powers forward.

They were going to make it, he could feel it. The amount of minutes they had to live increased, and Mickey felt something in himself calm down—his breathing slowed, evening out, and he felt strangely peaceful, listening to their lives increase. It seemed so sudden, their increase in life. It felt too fast. Mickey suddenly worried that he was increasing their life too much, too quickly, but he couldn’t stop it, he felt like he couldn’t control it—he suddenly felt out of bounds, like his power was controlling itself, like Mickey suddenly couldn’t control anything.

It was then that he felt the sudden wave of death again—that bitter chill, freezing himself, and that dark suffocation that stole his breath. Mickey panicked, reaching for his powers again, trying to send throughout the people’s bodies—he needed to make sure they were okay, he needed to make sure they would make it—but he didn’t have control over his powers. The panic in Mickey’s body increased, _where was the death?_ Who was dying? He felt his powers run through each of the four person’s bodies, doing a small check, before turning to Mickey, and that’s when he felt it. The death wasn’t in them.

It was in Mickey.

His powers tried to surge through him, but it wasn’t working—the switch in death between Mickey and the four people had been so quick, so sudden, and his powers were so focused on healing the four of them that it couldn’t save Mickey like it had them. The suffocation came back, but this time it stayed, causing pain to erupt in Mickey’s lungs, his throat. Prickles of pain touched along his veins, but mostly he couldn’t move, he couldn’t think or breathe or even scream for help. Then Mickey felt another person touch him—Ian, he knew it was Ian, his powers could recognize that, at least. Mickey’s head was pulled into Ian’s lap, but otherwise Mickey couldn’t feel anything else—all he could feel was his own death, and the pain in Ian’s body that was entirely internal, focused on the heart. Nothing that Mickey’s powers could fix.

Mickey lost feeling in his legs, the tips of his fingers. Ian’s fingers were touching Mickey’s face, his lips and his chest, trying to push the other hands off, but it was too late, Mickey was already gone. There was a moment of clarity, a moment where time seemed to suspend, pause, and a single, golden light seemed to shine and reach towards Mickey, a spark of light and song, before it was overtaken by a huge, dark wave, and Mickey went under.

\--

_Mickey’s father always hit him where people wouldn’t see it. At first, Mickey didn’t worry that much—he hadn’t known, at such a young age, that being hit wasn’t a good thing. He just thought it was normal. Besides, the hurt always went away. If Mickey’s father hit him on the chest, the stomach, Mickey would rub at the hurt with his hand. It would always feel warm, soothing, and then it wouldn’t hurt anymore._

_It wasn’t until Mickey dropped a plate, shattering on the floor, that Mickey truly understood everything—the hitting, his powers, his importance. His father yelled at him, smacked him sharply across the jaw, and told Iggy to pick the shards up before Mickey fucked himself bloody on them. Mickey held his jaw, hurt and confused, while his mother came in from the yelling. She examined Mickey’s face, saw the bright bruise forming on his cheek, and turned on his father. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she screamed. “The school will see that, Terry! They’re going to investigate us, is that what you want? How could you be so fucking stupid?”_

_His father yelled back, Iggy silently picked up the plate shards, and Mickey rubbed at his jaw, feeling his skin heat up. Finally, Mickey’s mother threw up her hands and grabbed Mickey by the wrist, dragging him into the bathroom. “I’m sorry, ma,” Mickey said, stumbling a little. “I hadn’t meant to.”_

_“I know you didn’t,” she said, voice softening. She closed the bathroom door behind them. “Let me see it, Mickey. Fucking Terry, gonna get the fucking feds on us. He should fucking know better.” Her fingers prodded softly at Mickey’s hand, which was closed over his aching cheek, so Mickey released his hand and let his mother look. When she saw his cheek, her eyebrows furrowed. “Mickey, what did you do?”_

_“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to drop the plate, ma.”_

_“That’s not what I meant,” his mother said, leaning back on her heels. “I swear—I saw him hit you, I saw the bruise myself, just right now, in the kitchen. Where did it go?”_

_“It hurt,” Mickey said. “I wanted it to go away.”_

_His mother’s eyes widened, and she jerked her head back. “You—you made it go away?” Mickey nodded. “Show me,” she commanded._

_Mickey closed his eyes, trying to make the warmth again, but he couldn’t. “Nothing hurts,” he said. His mother glanced around, looking in the shower and above the sink, and reached up. When she came back, she had a razor in her hand. Mickey flinched when she put it to her skin, but then she was rinsing the razor in the sink, putting it back. She put her hand out, so Mickey could see the blood on her palm. It was only a small amount, nothing huge._

_“Can you—?” she asked. Mickey bit his lip, unsure, but reached out and put his finger on his mother’s palm. A warmth rushed through him, along with a small, retreating pain, and then his mother’s wound was closing up, healing into a tiny pink scar. His mother stared at it, ran her fingers over the scar, almost reverently. Mickey shuffled his feet, worried at her reaction._

_“Ma,” Mickey whispered, “did I do something wrong?”_

_His mother turned to him, tears in her eyes. “Oh,_ miy khlopchyk _,” she whispered, brushing her fingers over Mickey’s cheek. “You’ve saved us. You’ve saved us all.”_

_She kept brushing his cheek, over and over, until the pressure began to hurt. Mickey closed his eyes, felt the image shift, felt his body shift, and when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in his house anymore—he was in his bed, the one at home, and Ian was cupping Mickey’s cheek, brushing his fingers over Mickey’s cheek and lips. Ian smiled at him when his eyes opened._

_“Ian,” Mickey said, a bit shakily, happily—he didn’t like being in that old place, with his parents and that horrible house._

_Ian swept his thumb over Mickey’s bottom lip, eyes on Mickey’s mouth, so Mickey leaned forward, head tilted up, seeking Ian’s mouth. Ian sighed into the kiss, hand moving to cup the back of Mickey’s neck, fingers threading softly in Mickey’s hair. Their mouths met, again and again, Ian’s breath coming in and out harder. Mickey rolled them over so that he was straddling Ian, hands in Ian’s hair, dragging over his neck and arms. Ian bit at Mickey’s bottom lip, laughing at Mickey’s shaky, “Ian, fuck.” Ian deepened the kiss, pressing forward more, tongue licking at the seam of Mickey’s lips. Mickey let out a tiny moan, and he moved Ian’s arms, pinning his wrists above his head. Ian laughed into Mickey’s mouth, wriggling his wrists a bit, and that’s when the area around Ian’s wrists suddenly felt wet. Mickey broke the kiss, “Ian—” already on his tongue, but then Mickey saw the blood dripping in between Mickey’s fingers, down Ian’s wrists. “Ian!” Mickey cried, louder, looking down at Ian’s face, but Ian’s eyes were suddenly closed._

_Mickey released his wrists, but they just fell, almost broken-looking, like broken wings, and Mickey kept screaming Ian’s name but he wouldn’t respond, his eyes wouldn’t open. “Ian, open your eyes,” Mickey said, desperation tinging his voice, but Ian wouldn’t wake. Blood was soaking the sheets, and panic was clawing at Mickey’s throat._

_“You’ve saved us all,” a voice said, sounding strangely like Mickey’s mother and Ian’s voices combined. “You’ve save us all.”_

\--

Mickey woke up choking on air.

He settled back down against the pillow, gasping for breath, and tried to open his eyes. He could hardly see anything when he did—the lights in the room felt dangerously bright, and his eyes were far too weak. Then something touched his hand, a finger, and then a hand following that, sliding into his palm. Mickey’s eyes were closed tightly, and he turned his head sideways to hide from the light, but he still recognized the person as Mandy. Mickey would recognize her anywhere—their blood was the same, singing to him, a song of sorrow and love, and Mickey felt comforted.

“Mickey, oh my god,” Mandy was saying, voice sounding choked on tears. “Karen, get a doctor, get _Ian_ —” Mickey tried to open his mouth to speak, but it was as if speaking was as harsh as the light in the room. He closed his mouth instead, swallowing, wishing he had water, and gripped onto Mandy’s hand tighter. “Hey, Mickey, stay awake, stay with us,” Mandy said, voice fierce and desperate. “Please, Mick—Ian will be here shortly, he’s right here, stay awake, he’ll want to see you—”

Only Ian wasn’t there, and the song in Mandy’s blood was lulling Mickey to sleep, and so Mickey fell under again.

\--

_Mandy flinched when Mickey’s hand neared her face, but it was just her natural reaction. Once Mickey touched the bone near her eye, she sighed in relief, leaning into his touch a little. The bruise disappeared within seconds, and Mandy leaned back against the sink when it was over. She was just the age when Terry started hitting Mickey in noticeable places, and even though Mickey hadn’t minded it on himself, he hated it happening to Mandy._

_“What am I supposed to do?” Mandy asked, sniffling a little. She wiped at her eyes. “I don’t have healing powers like you. I can’t fix it. He’s just gonna hit me—you’re not always gonna be there to heal me.”_

_“Then do something else,” Mickey offered, knowing in his heart it was a stupid ass thing to say._

_Mandy snorted, glaring at him. “Oh yeah? That’s what you just do then, to stop it all?” She wiped at her cheeks again. “Dumbass.”_

_Only next time, she did do something. Mandy was watching TV in the living room with Iggy when Terry came home, and Mickey heard Terry yelling at her. Mickey came into the living room at the same time that his mother did, right as Terry was raising his fist at Mandy. Mandy fell back onto the floor, scrambling a bit, but Terry loomed over her. Mickey’s mother was already screaming at Terry to stop, but Terry couldn’t be stopped, his hand sailing down._

_Then Mandy screamed. It hardly sounded like a word at first, but then Mickey heard the word “STOP!” and the air around her exploded. A wave of air pushed Mickey back, his feet skidding on the floor, and he watched in awe as Terry’s fist hit a force field. Terry hollered, clutching his hand, while Mandy cowered under her force field. Iggy, Mickey, and their mother all stood in amazement, watching her crackling shield, while Terry stomped around and yelled. Eventually Mandy’s shield cracked, collapsing, so Mickey ran over to her, his mother already there, touching her shoulder gently and asking her what’s wrong. Mickey’s mother was pulling Mandy into her lap, muttering,_ “Kokhana _,_ kokhana _,” into Mandy’s hair, and Mickey let his power run through Mandy to make sure she was alright._

_Terry yelled for Mickey, saying his hand needed healing, and Mickey flinched. He got up anyways, walked over to Terry, and eyed Terry’s broken hand. Reluctantly, Mickey grasped it and began to heal his father’s hand, while his father muttered on about how no one checked to make sure if he was fine._

_Suddenly Mickey’s father grabbed Mickey’s arm, dragging him, yelling in his ear, his other hand reaching around and smacking Mickey on the head. “Heal her!” he screamed, raged. He dragged Mickey over to the couch, the living room suddenly empty of Iggy and Mandy, and shoved Mickey down on the floor by the couch. Right in front of Mickey’s eyes were his mother’s legs, bent at an awkward angle, unmoving. Terry hit Mickey on the back of the head. “Heal her, motherfucker!” he shrieked. “Fucking heal her!” Mickey shook his head, tried to scramble away, but Terry picked Mickey up by the collar of his shirt, punched him twice in the jaw. “HEAL HER!” he screamed. “GOD DAMN IT, FUCKING HEAL HER!”_

_Mickey refused, he refused, he’d promised his mother hours ago that he wouldn’t heal her, he promised her, she’d wanted to die, and Terry kept hitting him, over and over, until Mickey just went limp in his arms, face aching from Terry’s punches, face bloody and bruised. Terry was practically sobbing. “Heal her!” he screamed. “You son of a bitch, you worthless piece of shit, heal her, heal her,_ heal her— _”_

* * *

  **part iii. superpower (the laws of the world)**

_“the laws of the world never stopped us once, cause together we’ve got plenty superpower”_

* * *

Mickey woke up clutching the sheets, sweat soaking his back, heart racing.

He was more coherent this time, more awake. The lights were bright like last time, but not nearly as blinding, and Mickey recognized the room as a hospital room. Mickey was lying in a hospital bed, out of his suit and in a paper shirt, and Ian was sitting in a chair next to the bed. When Ian saw him wake, he jumped forward, reaching for Mickey’s hand. “ _Mickey_ ,” he said, and Mickey had never heard his name so full of relief, of love, of hope. “Mick, love, stay with me this time, don’t go back to sleep."

When Mickey spoke, his voice was practically gone. He managed to croak out, “I won’t.”

Ian kept talking to him, but his voice began to sound fuzzy to Mickey’s ears, so he just kept holding Ian’s hand and attempting to focus on his words. Soon Mickey realized why everything sounded fuzzy—Mickey wasn’t in his own body. At least, his powers were in Ian’s body, rushing through him, and Mickey was so focused on his powers that he wasn’t aware he was even inside of them. That was new.

Mickey snapped out of it, pulled his powers away and focused on Ian talking, and then he noticed the doctor in the room. A woman came over to Mickey, touching his shoulder and shining a flashlight into his eyes. She said something to Ian, who responded back loudly, the pressure of his hand around Mickey’s increasing. The pressure reached a point that Mickey didn’t like, so he muttered, “Ow, stop.” The nurse touched her face to Mickey’s cheek, spoke to Ian, and Ian gripped Mickey’s hand again. “Fuck, ow!” Mickey exclaimed when it felt like Ian would crack his bone. The nurse nodded, satisfied, and left. “You have fucking super strength, asshole,” Mickey muttered.

Ian laughed, said something to Mickey that Mickey couldn’t hear, and kissed Mickey’s hand, his palm and his fingers and his tattoos. “Shut up,” Mickey muttered, even though Ian hadn’t said anything. Mickey heard what Ian was saying just by the press of his lips.

As though Ian’s lips focused something in him, Mickey’s head cleared, and he felt as though his ears just popped and he could hear clearly now. Someone raced through the door, screaming Mickey’s name, and Mickey groaned. Alright, his head was still delicate, if the throbbing told him anything. “Mandy, please . . .” Mickey started, but she was already on him, pulling him close and sobbing in his ear. This time he couldn’t hear her only because she sounded like she was speaking gibberish, but once she was pulled away, Karen replaced her, speaking calmly in Mickey’s ear.

Once Karen had pulled away and settled, tucking herself in Mandy’s side on a chair, a bolt of panic struck Mickey. “What happened?” he said, voice raw and cracking. “The people—what happened to them?”

“They’re all alive,” Ian said, smiling at Mickey, his eyes watering. “They all made it to the hospital in time, and they all lived, and they’re all recuperating like you are.”

Mickey laid back against the pillow, sighing in relief. Ian’s hand squeezed his in reassurance, and Mickey squeezed back. “So where am I?” Mickey asked, eyeing his strange hospital room. It didn’t seem like a regular hospital room, despite the flowers on the tables and floor.

Ian glanced back at Mandy and Karen. “You’re at the headquarters for the Department of Heroes.”

“They . . . have a building for that shit?”

Ian gave a short burst of laughter, and Mandy and Karen chuckled, too. “Yes, they do. They took you here because you’re a hero.”

“Not a hero,” Mickey protested.

Mandy shook her head. “Even on your _deathbed_ , you deny that you’re a hero.”

“Deathbed?” Mickey repeated. His throat was already sore from talking, and he wanted water. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He looked to Ian, but Ian’s eyes were suddenly focused on their intertwined hands, his lips pressed together. “What happened?” Mickey asked. “What—”

“A shitshow, that’s what happened,” Karen said, hugging Mandy closer to her. “You fucking _died_ , Mickey.”

“Impossible, considering I’m alive right now,” Mickey said. He frowned when no one else cracked into a smile. “Unless being a ghost is part of my powers?”

That made Karen and Ian laugh, at least. Mandy scowled at him.

“What happened was . . . I put the last hand on you and your body kept twitching,” Ian began, voice quiet. Mandy and Karen shifted, almost uncomfortably, and Mickey looked to Ian, wondering. “I was worried, you kept . . . it was like you were possessed. Your eyes were closed, and your body would raise, sometimes, and their bodies . . .” Ian closed his eyes for a moment, shaking himself. “It was fucking creepy. Eventually your body stopped moving and you lay completely still. I thought you had finally settled, that everything was okay, because you usually get tired after healing me and I thought this was the same.” Ian took a deep breath, giving Mickey a tight smile. “If Brainstorm hadn’t been there, you _would_ have died. She caught it—she started freaking out, saying your brain was empty. Remember how she said the victim’s minds were empty, and that was because they were dying? It was the same with you. She felt your mind empty and started yelling, telling me you were dying and I . . .” Ian dropped off, biting his bottom lip.

“You came over to me,” Mickey said, remembering that his powers had recognized Ian.

Ian nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah, well. Brainstorm told me you were dying and I flipped the fuck out, racing over to you. And you—fuck, _Mickey_.” Ian’s eyes were watering. “You weren’t responding. I pulled your head in my lap, but you weren’t breathing, I fucking swear, I couldn’t feel your lungs move or breath come out of your mouth, and no matter how much I tried to wake you, you just _wouldn’t_.”

Mandy muttered, “Fuck,” and stood up from her chair, going over to the side table and snatching a bunch of tissues.

“The ambulance came . . . fuck, I don’t know how many minutes later. They took the four victims, and then they came for you, and I was, well.” Ian smiled, almost sheepishly. “I was frantic. I wouldn’t leave you, I kept screaming, it was . . . it was bad. _Fuck_ , Mick, it was so bad. I stayed in the ambulance with you. I kept . . . I wouldn’t let go of your hand. They tried to separate us, but I wouldn’t let go of your hand.” Ian’s voice was lowering as he lost himself in the story, in remembering what happened. “The ambulance dropped us off in one room in the hospital, checked our your vitals or whatever they do, but they couldn’t figure anything out. The Department of Heroes came minutes later, picked us both up, and took us here.”

Mickey tried to remember any of that, but all he could recall was the faint taste of blood in his mouth from his father hitting him so many times. His mother’s words rang in his head. _Miy khlopchyk_. “What . . . what happened to me?”

Ian shrugged. “They don’t know. The best they could guess, you just inverted the effects the people had onto yourself so that you were dying. You gave so much of your own powers, your own life, that you began to die.”  

“They didn’t do anything,” Mandy added from the chair, throwing her tissues on the floor. “They couldn’t. You were just . . . dying. So they just kept you here. Didn’t give you any drugs, didn’t do any surgeries. They just told us that eventually your powers would bring you back to full health, and they let you be.”

Mickey shifted in the bed, trying to process the information. His body felt fine—if he tried to move, he could do it easily. He was only a little sluggish from the lack of movement. It was his mind that needed work, that needed to be brought back to health. Fuck, Mickey was tired. And his throat still hurt. “Water,” he said. Ian grabbed a cup on the table near him and handed it to Mickey, without taking his hand out of Mickey’s. Mickey smiled gratefully and drained the entire cup in three large gulps. “How long have I been here for?” Mickey asked, feeling some water drip down his chin.

“Almost two weeks now,” Karen said. Mickey frowned at her—two weeks?—and chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Fuck,” Mickey said, just to say something.

Ian laughed. “Yeah, _fuck_ describes this pretty well.”

Mandy complained that it wasn’t nearly enough, and all Mickey wanted was to hug her. He remembered her being there earlier and said, “I woke up and you were here.”

A brief look of surprise crossed Mandy’s face. “Yes, I was. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember that,” she said.

“I recognized you,” Mickey said softly, remembering the song in her blood. It had been sad, low, a nostalgic croon. It sounded like their mother’s voice, although she never sang to them. But it had been their mother’s voice nonetheless. “I recognized us.”

Mandy’s brows furrowed, and her mouth dropped open in a tiny _o_ of confusion, but then a nurse walked in, a tray balanced on her hands. She came over to Mickey and placed the tray on his lap. It was just a sandwich with jello and some water. Mickey raised his eyebrows at her. “You need to keep up your strength,” she said. “We’re not sure if your body is ready for a full-on dinner meal yet.”

Mickey shrugged, picking up the jello cup. “I’ve always liked jello.” He gave Ian a small look when Ian wouldn’t release his hand, but Ian did, after giving Mickey an unhappy look in return. “How have you been feeding me before? Wait—” He pointed a finger at Karen, who began to talk. “I changed my mind, I don’t want to know.”

The nurse cleared her throat, looking to Ian. “Svetlana wants to talk to you, you know. You’ll probably talk with her soon.” Her eyes cut over to Mickey. “She’ll want to talk to you, too.”

“Intimidating,” Mickey muttered, rolling his eyes. The nurse glared at him for a brief moment. Mickey mouthed, “Sorry,” but he could tell she didn’t believe him.

The nurse turned to Karen and Mandy. “We’ll be closing soon, will you be—”

Karen rolled her eyes. “We’ll be leaving, no need to worry.” The nurse nodded and left the room, making sure the door didn’t slam behind her. Karen huffed. “They keep kicking us out,” she told Mickey. “Ian’s allowed to stay, though.”

“What? Why?”

Ian groaned. “I’ve already told them why. It’s because they’re not heroes—they’ve already made an exception by allowing you guys to come in during the day, but they can’t let you stay at night. Mickey and I are heroes, but you’re not.”

“Mickey claims he’s not a hero, shouldn’t he leave?” Mandy said, tilting her head. Ian glared at her, and she laughed. “Calm down, I’m just joking. Mickey’s the one who’s not joking about being a hero.”

“I’m so glad you’re leaving,” Mickey said.

“No, you’re not,” Karen said simply, and she was right. She came over to Mickey and hugged him tight (she also pulled on his ear, but Mickey flicked her on the back of the neck). Mandy did the same, and when she hugged him, for a moment, Mickey heard the low, sorrowful song again, just at the back of his mind. He almost wished Mandy could hear it too.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, alright?” Mandy whispered in his ear. Mickey nodded and tugged gently on a piece of hair that was loose from Mandy’s bun. She smiled at him, took Karen’s hand, and they left the room.

Ian didn’t speak while Mickey ate his food—if eating the jello and picking lightly at everything else could be called eating—and after about two minutes, Mickey couldn’t handle the silence. “Hey, you okay?”

Ian started as though he had been lost in thought for a while. “Am I okay?” he repeated. He let out a sardonic laugh. “That’s the literal worst question you’ve ever asked me. Am I okay? Am I _fucking_ —” Ian rubbed his hands over his face. “You fucking—you went under. You wouldn’t respond. You want to know what I was thinking in the ambulance, Mickey? I wasn’t thinking that I wish the doctors would save you. I was thinking that I wished we’d never gone, that I’d gotten to talk to you one last time, because I thought you were _dead_. You were a fucking statue, you were so unresponsive.” Ian looked more and more distressed as he talked, so Mickey took his hand again, holding it between two of his own. “I stayed with you the entire time. I just—no matter how gone I thought you were, I wouldn’t leave. The thought of—of abandoning you like that made me sick.” Ian shook his head, using his other hand to wipe at his wet cheeks. “The Department came later and took us to the hospital. I kept asking about what would happen with you, and they just told me to wait. I was confused, and then someone told me that you were alive. I’m still not—” Ian ran a hand through his hair. “I’m still not sure whether or not I imagined you dead or if I was just too distressed. I don’t know. But even then. Even then, you were in a coma for two weeks. You wouldn’t wake up, and I was worried you never would, and no one knew what was wrong with you or how to fix it. All I could do was wait here and talk with Mandy and Karen. And then you woke up, but I wasn’t here. Fuck, _I wasn’t here_.”  

“ _Stop_ ,” Mickey said, running his fingers over the back of Ian’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “None of that is your fault. I’m the one who couldn’t stay awake.”

The corner of Ian’s mouth lifted into a tiny smile. “Basically, the past two weeks have been the worst in my entire life. So, no, I’m not exactly okay. But you’re awake, and I’m feeling better. I’m way better. Oh! And I love you. A fuckton. So, yeah. It’s better.”

Mickey laughed, brushing his thumb over the back of Ian’s hand. “Had one of those _oh shit when was the last time I told him I loved him_ moments?”

“Does that even deserve a response?” Ian asked, smiling.

“No, I don’t suppose it does. But that’s alright, because I love you too.”

-

“So where do all these flowers come from?” Mickey asked, finishing off the sandwich they’d given him for lunch. Some of the flowers had obviously been given to him earlier on, as they were wilting or already dead, while others were still fresh and aromatic. Definitely aromatic, because the room still smelled vaguely like flowers—it was always in the back of Mickey’s nose. “Do I have a whole city of admirers?”

Ian laughed, in the way that told Mickey that Ian thought he was an idiot. “They’re from the other heroes,” Ian said. “In a . . . recognizing your service kind of way. No one who serves as a hero actually wants to die, but they recognize that the risk is there. It’s rare, but of course it’s there. You took that risk and you weren’t even a registered hero. They have a lot of respect for you.”

Mickey licked at the corner of his mouth, where some sauce had stayed when he’d bitten into the sandwich. “Oh,” was all he could manage to say.

“I think . . . I think those red roses over there are from Ethel and Malik—they sent some every three days or something—and . . . oh, that colorful bouquet, the one with all the purple and blue and red flowers, those are from Estefania . . .”

Mickey frowned. “Who’s that?”

“Hmm?” Ian picked up a tiny vase of carnations that was put on Mickey’s bedside table. “Oh, Estefania? That’s Bruiser. And these carnations are from Molly—Brainstorm. She actually came in, you know. They wanted to make sure you were alive, and they called her in. She felt your brain and said you were dreaming, and that’s how we knew you were alive.” Ian picked one of the carnations by the stem and brought the petals to his nose. He smiled gently at the scent and then put the carnation back. “She told me afterwards that you were having a mix of dreams and memories. She told me they were scary.”

Mickey thought about what his dreams had been like. “They were . . .” Mickey couldn’t describe it. He wasn’t sure if they were _scary_ exactly. “Heartbreaking,” Mickey finished. “They were heartbreaking.” His mother, his sister, Ian. Himself. All of them were hurt, scared, damaged somehow. That hurt more than the feeling of his father punching him had been.

Ian nodded and put the vase of carnations back to its original spot. Ian just began talking about his family and how they were worried about Mickey when a woman walked into the room. She wasn’t like any of the nurses—she was dressed in a pencil skirt and dark blouse, and her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail. She had a large file in one hand and a bag slung over her shoulder. Ian straightened when she walked in.

“Svetlana,” he said, tone surprised. He glanced at Mickey. “Mick, this is Svetlana. She’s the head of the Department of Heroes. I didn’t think you’d be coming to talk to us so quickly,” he told her.

Svetlana shrugged. “My schedule opened up today, and I figured you guys wouldn’t have anything more interesting to do, so you wouldn’t mind.”

“Hey, these soap operas on the TV are top-notch,” Mickey said. Ian pressed his mouth together to hide a smile, but Svetlana just looked at Mickey with a raised eyebrow.

“Ian, I’m going to need you to go down the hall to the waiting room,” Svetlana said. Mickey straightened at that, already uncomfortable with Ian leaving him, and even Ian looked upset about it. “Linda’s waiting for you down there,” Svetlana continued, “and I need to talk with Mickey.”

Ian sighed, standing up. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he told Mickey, squeezing his hand once in a reassuring manner and then leaving. He glanced back once when he was at the door, smiled at Mickey, and then walked down the rest of the hall.

Mickey watched as Svetlana walked over to where Ian was sitting, her heels clicking on the tiles as she walked. She set her bag down on the floor by her feet and placed the folder file in her lap. “Mickey Milkovich,” she said, looking up and smiling at him. Mickey didn’t feel particularly bothered by her presence, only curious about why she wanted to talk to him. “I have to say,” she continued, “I’ve been very interested in meeting The Surge.”

Mickey stopped himself from protesting against the name and said, “You were?”

Svetlana nodded and raised up the file. It was thin, but Mickey could still see papers stacked inside. “You’ve caused me quite a lot of trouble,” she said, shaking the file. She dropped it back in her lap. “And this is only your physical file. Your online file is much more extensive.”

“At least I made your job more interesting,” Mickey said, shifting the pillow behind him and leaning back.

Svetlana raised her eyebrow. “I supervise over heroes with a large range of superpowers. I don’t think you get a job more interesting than that. Maybe I should rephrase my earlier statement: you’ve been a pain in my ass.” Mickey snorted. “But . . . you’ve also saved many lives. So I thank you.”

Mickey nodded. “You’re, uh, welcome.”

“And even though you’ve caused me all this trouble, that’s not why I’m here to talk to you,” Svetlana said. “I’m here to talk to you about what happened two weeks ago.”

Nerves began to crawl in Mickey’s stomach. “What about it?” he asked.

Svetlana laughed. “What about it, indeed. There is actually a lot that I wish to discuss with you, Mickey. A lot more than I think even you know.” She opened up the file and flicked through the papers until she reached one, slipping it out of the pile. “About two weeks ago, four people went missing and appeared in a empty, for-sale apartment lot on Amherst Street. Brainstorm reported the people, and we sent out messages to other heroes, along with the side note ‘Redwin Street’ so that Ian would know to bring you. We got a call later that night from the hospital—the four patients were being treated to, but there was a dead hero, and the Department needed to deal with it.”

“But I wasn’t dead,” Mickey said.

Svetlana pursed her lips. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mickey. We got reports from the paramedic on the scene, in the ambulance, and even from the doctors at the hospital: you were dead. Completely unresponsive.”

Mickey stared at her. “You’re—you’re fucking joking. Obviously I didn’t die, because I’m right here. I’m breathing, I’m alive.”

“Yes, well.” Svetlana leaned back in her chair. “We arrived at the hospital, had our doctors check you out. Our own documentation reported that you were dead, Mickey. But Ian was frantic and breaking down, so we took you over to our hospital to deal with you. Only once we arrived at this hospital and put you in the very same bed you’re in right now, one of our nurses swore that you breathed. She felt your breath. No one believed her, and it was frankly cruel to say in front of Ian, but then another doctor came in, checked you, and . . . you were alive. Barely breathing, heartbeat the weakest we’ve ever seen it for life, but you were alive. It was the strangest thing we’ve ever seen at the Department, and we regularly come into contact with heroes and villains.”

Mickey licked his lips. “So are you sure that I was dead? Or did—”

“Did any of us make any mistakes? You mean the many nurses, doctors, and others who are professionals in their job, and somehow they all made mistakes on your death?” Svetlana shook her head. “I’m the head of the _superhero_ agency, Mickey. We know death.”

Mickey didn’t speak, mostly because he didn’t know what to say. How could he have died? Fuck, how the fuck could he have _lived_ if he had supposedly died? Surely his powers—his powers couldn’t bring people back from the dead.

“How the fuck am I alive then?” Mickey asked, voice shaking.

Svetlana pressed her lips together and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Do you know how powers develop, Mickey?”

“I thought they didn’t know why powers existed or where they came from.”

“And we don’t, but that’s not what I asked you. I asked you if you knew how they _develop_. And yes, there’s a difference.” Mickey shook his head, and Svetlana nodded as if she expected that answer. “Researchers are still trying to figure out how powers come about. But the Department as known for quite some time how powers develop. And it’s simply practice.”

“Practice,” Mickey repeated.

“Well, practice does make perfect, doesn’t it?” Svetlana said. The small smile that appeared after that statement disappeared just as quickly. “You and your sister,” she said, rather suddenly. Mickey closed his hands into fists, ready to defend him and Mandy. “You two are very powerful. _Very_ powerful. Not to mention the powers that you have: the ability to heal and make force fields. Those are incredibly useful and important powers, Mickey.” Svetlana clasped her hands together. “They’re also very defensive powers. Your powers aren’t made for attacking, they’re made for _protecting_.

“Powers develop the more you use them. You and your sister lived in an abusive household where your powers could help you. I imagine you began using your powers at a young age, yes?” Mickey thought about his mother wiping his cheek, asking him to show her how he healed his cheek. When he nodded, Svetlana continued, “You began to use your powers during your very young years and continued to use them. Your sister was the same. You both used your powers so much that they became stronger, more powerful. You could heal more wounds, larger wounds, faster. Your sister could create bigger force fields—maybe she could hold them longer. You practiced. And so your powers developed and became stronger.

“Ian grew up in a very unstable home. He had super strength—both physical and mental. He developed his mental strength because of his home life—he had to take care of his younger siblings, he was always working late and staying up for school work, his father physically and verbally abused him and his family, his mother—”

“I know what happened,” Mickey cut in. “I have been dating him for the past 4 years.”

Svetlana smiled, and raised her hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Malik grew up in a bad neighbourhood, too. He lived in a place that had constant violence from gangs, but Malik’s mother didn’t want him associating with any of them. He had to do a lot of running from a lot of people, whether gangs or police. But he kept running and running, and now his powers is stronger for it.” Svetlana uncrossed her legs. “I think you get the point, Mickey. I don’t think I need to go into detail about Molly’s emotionally and psychologically abusive mother and how it helped her mental power, or how Estefania’s drug lord father and abusive boyfriend helped her develop her defensive power.”

Mickey frowned, picking at the blanket with his fingers. “All these heroes come from abusive childhoods,” Mickey said. “You’re saying that’s where you pick your heroes?” He couldn’t quite keep the disgust out of his voice.

Svetlana jerked back a little, and Mickey could tell that he offended her. “Of course not,” she snapped, anger sharp in her tone. “Heroes volunteer, Mickey. Malik could have easily developed his powers from running track, or just for the sheer pleasure of using his power. I was merely commenting on many of the studies that we’ve found among our heroes.”

“They’re powerful because of the shitty life they’ve lived,” Mickey said. “What does that say about villains?”

Svetlana looked as though she wanted to laugh at that, and suddenly Mickey thought that she might have had a similar childhood to Mickey. “Heroes tend to come from a poor, abusive childhood, while villains are a mixture of both rich and poor.”

Mickey nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. Poor kids grow up either wanting to make the world better because they had it so shitty, or they want to get revenge for having lived that shitty life. Rich people have nothing better to do than be villains because they’re so bored. Or maybe they happen to be good, whatever.”

Svetlana smiled, her fingers ghosting over the edges of the file absentmindedly. “This is the thing, Mickey. My team—a group of scientists, doctors, eximologists—have come up with a . . . hypothesis, per se. A hypothesis on why you were brought back to life.” Mickey was suddenly aware of his heartbeat, low and humming under his skin, his power rushing through his own body so quickly that it almost felt like a headache. “We believe that you bonded yourself to Ian, somehow. We believe that you bonded your life to Ian’s, and you didn’t die because Ian was still alive.”

Mickey stared at her. Svetlana’s expression was completely serious, and her mouth wasn’t twitching, so she obviously believed in her statement. Mickey could only stare at her in shock and disbelief. Bonded his life to Ian’s? Was she fucking joking? “You’re shitting me,” Mickey said when it was obvious that she was waiting for a response. “This isn’t some—this isn’t some Harry Potter bullshit. You can’t put your life into something—some _one_ else.”

“Well, you have,” Svetlana said. “Ian didn’t leave your side, remember? Ian didn’t leave your side the entire night. We think that the bond was strong enough in Ian to bring you back—we think your powers recognized yourself in Ian and brought you back, because they knew you were still alive, just very weak.”

Mickey tried not to laugh, he really did, but it sort of burst out of him. “You’re fucking delusional.”

He could tell she didn’t like that; Svetlana straightened in her seat, affronted. “When you came back to life, your heartbeat was very weak. Ian couldn’t believe you were alive and wouldn’t allow us to let him leave you. After a while, we managed to convince him to change out of his hero clothes. Once he let go of your hand, once he took one step outside the room, your heart monitor went crazy. You began dying again. Ian rushed back to your side, panicked, and once he was close, you stabilized again.” Mickey gaped at her. “Tell me something,” Svetlana said in a curt tone. “Has there ever been a moment where Ian was so close to dying that you basically brought him back from the dead?”

Mickey flinched, thinking of crimson blood on white tile floors and the way Ian’s breath rattled in his lungs, barely escaping his mouth. He thought of the blood on Ian’s mouth and the distant noise of the sirens as the ambulance made its way to the hospital, because all Mickey could do was focus on his powers healing Ian and Ian’s weak heartbeat. He remembered a doctor telling him, _“If you didn’t have your healing power, Ian surely would have died on that bathroom floor.”_

Mickey knew Svetlana could read the expression on his face, which clearly affirmed her statement. She nodded once, as if she knew Mickey would confirm it, but didn’t appear smug in any way, which Mickey was grateful for. “We believe that on that night, you tied your life to Ian’s so that he would live. Maybe you did it unwillingly. In fact, I’m sure you did it unwillingly, but you did it nonetheless. From that point on, you were bonded to Ian. I’m sure you must have felt it; it must have been powerful.”

Mickey remembered how on that night, he felt as though he couldn’t leave Ian, that if he did leave Ian, Ian would die. Fuck, he’d actually—it had felt like a tangible thing, a physical pull. If Svetlana was right, then that meant it _had_ been tangible. Mickey couldn’t meet Svetlana’s gaze.

“We believe that this bond between you and Ian developed the same way a power does,” Svetlana continued, although her voice was much gentler, as if she knew Mickey was upset. “If you and Ian had remained distant after the life-saving incident, the bond would have been weak. If you had become friends, it would be strong—if you were best friends, I’m sure it would have been very strong, maybe as strong as it is now. Only—”

“Only we fell in love,” Mickey finished quietly.

“Yes. Only you fell in love,” she repeated. “And so the bond was extremely strong. Strong enough that it brought you back from the dead.”

It was making Mickey’s mind whirl and his stomach churn. The idea that Mickey had bonded himself to Ian on that night, had literally saved him—not because he got their in time, not because he’d healed him enough, but because he’d literally tied his life to Ian’s—felt like too much to process. The idea that every single time Mickey touched Ian, that Ian touched him, that they kissed and argued and smiled and laughed and fell for each other further, they were strengthening that bond, they were tying themselves further together—

It felt completely incomprehensible. It felt farther than just superpowers, bigger than just him and Ian.

“So what,” Mickey began. His voice was weak, so he cleared his throat and started over. “So what, Ian and I are immortal? We can never die?”

Svetlana rubbed her hand over her mouth, and she sighed. “Frankly, we don’t know,” she said. “We’ve never seen anything like this. Our best guess is . . . no, you’re not immortal. If anything, we believe that because it’s your power, it only affects you. As long as Ian lives, you can’t die. But if Ian dies and you’re not around to heal him, he dies. It’s one-sided, because you’re the only one with the power to heal people.”

Mickey pressed his hands to his face so that his fingers covered his eyes. He wanted her to leave, to give him some time to process everything. Svetlana must have picked up on that, because she sighed and switched the subject. “We also have to discuss your status as a hero,” she said. “I can’t have the media and government yelling at me every time you save lives because you’re unregistered. And breaking the law by being so.” Mickey rolled his eyes, and Svetlana smiled, although her voice was stern. “And I also can’t have you dying on us while you’re unregistered. So you need to decide whether you’re going to register as a hero, or if you’re going to drop it entirely.”

Mickey nodded. He startled when Svetlana stood—the movement seemed to break a bubble that surrounded them—and picked up her bag and the file. She walked over to the exit but stopped in the doorway. “Thank you, Mr. Milkovich,” she said, turning so that he could make out her profile. “Thank you for your service.” Without another word or look, Svetlana left the room, the clicking of her heels receding as she went further and further away.

Mickey just laid in bed, stunned. His mind was still trying to wrap itself around the idea of him and Ian being bonded together—he was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he was the one who bonded them together. Mickey thought about how his powers treated Ian, how Ian was the only one his powers could sense without physically touching him, how his powers always rushed into Ian with a giddy feeling, how Mickey’s emotions tied into his powers when he was trying to heal Ian. It wasn’t as if Mickey went _aha!_ and everything suddenly made sense. It was a slow process, where Mickey had to think and remember, going through as many details as possible.

What really hit him was the moment before he went under— _before you died_ , his mind supplied, and the thought made his skin crawl with goosebumps and a shiver go up his spine—when Ian had touched him, had put Mickey’s head in his lap. He remembered a small moment when everything had stopped, where a spark of golden light had reached out to him. He wondered if it was Ian, or Mickey’s life in Ian, or their bond—whatever it was, Mickey mulled it over in his head, closed his eyes, focused his breathing, and tried to find it. No matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to find the bond.

There was a small knock on the door. Mickey opened his eyes and saw Ian standing in the doorway. Ian smiled and walked in when Mickey opened his eyes, but he didn’t say anything, just sat back in the chair and took Mickey’s hand in his.

“So,” Mickey said, just to prompt Ian into saying something. “I assume you got the same speech that I did?” Ian nodded, smile widening a bit more. “It’s a bit fucking ridiculous, don’t you think?”

That got Ian to laugh. He pressed Mickey’s hand to his forehead, his body shaking. “Fuck, I almost don’t believe it,” he said, almost gasping with laughter. “You tied our _lives_ together, Mick.”

“How’s that for a proposal, huh?” Mickey asked. He was only joking, but his lungs felt weirdly breathless after he said it.

Ian lifted his head and looked at Mickey in surprise. “A bit early, wouldn’t you say?” he said. “I mean, we’d only just met.”

“Hey, you gotta set that shit up early,” Mickey said. Ian laughed again, his grip tightening on Mickey’s hand. “Seriously, you can’t just do it out of the blue.”

“You have to lay down the foundations,” Ian said.

“ _Exactly_.”

Ian was pressing his lips together and trying not to smile, something he did when he found Mickey ridiculous. His fingers loosened in Mickey’s so that he could play with them. “Alright,” he said, so quietly that Mickey at first wasn’t sure that he’d said anything at all. “Alright, yeah.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A tiny laugh escaped Ian’s mouth. His cheeks were turning red, and that made Mickey grin more than anything. “Yes.”

“Alright. Good.”

It was as if they couldn’t speak any other words except those—Ian was grinning too hard to say anything else, and his eyes kept flitting up to Mickey’s, but they never held. Every once in a while, another small laugh would burst out of him. Mickey closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trying to fight a grin and losing very badly. He felt Ian press a kiss to the four corners of Mickey’s palm, and then he felt Ian grin against his palm.

“Whether the bond actually exists or not, I suppose you could do worse,” Ian said. He was still so close to Mickey’s hand that Mickey’s fingers ghosted over his lips, that Ian’s breath fanned over Mickey’s palm.

“Do worse?”

Ian met Mickey’s eyes then, and if Mickey was ever electrocuted, it would feel like this, the way Ian’s eyes were on him, the connection between their fingertips. And suddenly Mickey could feel it, could feel the bond pulling between them, connecting their heartbeats through the warmth of their fingers, through the look in Ian’s eyes.

“Than being bonded to the love of your life,” Ian said.

Mickey couldn’t handle it anymore. “Get up here,” he said, breathless. Ian laughed and stood, only to have Mickey pull on their intertwined hands so that Ian stumbled forward, catching himself on Mickey’s stomach. “Ridiculous,” Mickey muttered, but it was soon forgotten when Ian kissed him.

\--

“I think, if this shows anything, it’s that you should always listen to me,” Mandy said, handing Mickey the glass of water he’d asked for. He was finally released from the Department’s hospital—they couldn’t exactly hold him because there wasn’t technically anything wrong with him besides weakness—and since he’d been in the hospital for a while, Amanda had allowed him a break off of work.

“Sorry, what?” Mickey asked, taking the glass from her hand.

“I told you not to get involved in the hero shit and you did. Then I told you it was going to happen again and it did. I said you were going to get hurt if you continue, and guess what the fuck happened?” Mandy raised her eyebrows as she drank from her glass. “Always listen to Mandy. Make that your mantra. Or your superhero catchphrase: _always listen to Mandy_.”

Mickey sighed. “Alright, I’ll say it this one time. You were right.”

Mandy smiled and leaned forward so that she could clink their glasses. “Thank you, brother dearest.”

Mickey put his own glass down on the table nearby. When he was leaning back, the sunlight glinted for a moment off of Mandy’s engagement ring. He eyed it for a moment. “I have to think about it.”

“Think about what?”

“Becoming a superhero.” Mandy jerked a little and made a surprised noise. “Not like that,” Mickey said, hoping he was reassuring. “I have to make a decision about whether I’m going to register or not. I can’t keep going around the way I did before.”

Mandy tilted her head. “Didn’t I _also_ tell you that—”

“Shut up,” Mickey cut in. “I get it, alright? Not only can you make force fields, but you can predict the future.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “So what are you thinking about doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have to decide whether or not you’re going to register,” Mandy said. “Have you thought about it at all? What you’re going to do?”

“It’s been going in circles inside my fucking head,” Mickey said. “Sitting here all day doesn’t exactly give me a shit ton to think about.”

“Well, what have you been leaning towards?” Mandy asked. Mickey wouldn’t meet her eyes, just shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “That’s what I thought you’d go for.” Her voice was cold, almost disappointed.

“You don’t get it—”

“No, I really don’t!” Mandy exclaimed. “All this shit has happened—Bolt has been tortured and Ian was captured and almost tortured and you fucking died! And you still want to continue this?” Mandy stood, running a furious hand through her hair and pacing across the carpet. “You’re so fucking stupid, Mick. You’re so fucking—”

Mickey curled his hands into fists, trying to ignore her. She didn’t understand anything, she didn’t know what it was _like_ out there.

“Have you even thought about that villain, Mickey?” she continued, voice rising. She turned on him sharply. “That villain is still out there. He already got to Bolt, he got to Ian, and he finally got to you! And you know what the fucking funny part about that is? When he tortured Bolt, you got involved. When he messed with Ian, you were involved. And then he finally managed to get you all by yourself, without any other hero involved. He cut out the middleman—”

Mickey frowned as Mandy kept going. For some reason, the words she was currently saying were fading underneath the ones she’d just said. _He cut out the middleman—_

“—you’ve been so, so focused on yourself as a hero, so caught up in the exhilaration of it, that you completely forgot that the villain was the reason you became involved in the first place!” she finished.

“Murphy’s Law,” Mickey said, although that wasn’t what he had meant to say at all. He’d meant to argue back, even though he knew the argument would be weak.

Mandy deflated at his words. She sat back down in the seat, scratching her nail on the table. “I know Mom fucked you up,” Mandy said. Mickey looked at her in shock, feeling his stomach coil. What the fuck was she talking about? “I know she got this idea in your head that you had to fix everything—her wounds, my wounds, Dad’s anger, _our_ anger . . . everything.” Mickey could feel something cloying his throat, something close to tears, and he couldn’t look at her. “But you can let that all go. You don’t have to fix everything, Mick. Not this city, not the villain, not those hurt people . . . you _don’t_.”

Mickey felt a tear brush down his cheeks, cold and fleeting, and he wiped them away hastily with his palms. “Do you remember—” Mickey swallowed. “Do you remember what Mom used to call you?”

Mandy bit her lip, nodded. “ _Kokhana_ ,” she whispered.

Mickey reached his hand out, and Mandy took his hand, squeezing it tightly. Her hands were soft, and the ring was cold against Mickey’s hand. For some reason, he couldn’t hear the song in her blood as clearly as he could before, but it was just there, as small as a heartbeat.

“I did fix it with Dad,” Mickey whispered.

Mandy flipped his hand over, examined his tattoos. They seemed so different if they were only judged by their hands—hers were clean, thin, elegant, with a gold band containing an inlaid stone around her ring finger, while Mickey’s hands were covered in tattoos, his fingernails stubbed short from so many years of worrying on them.

“Oh, Mick,” Mandy murmured. The way she said it was so heartbreaking that Mickey almost wanted to cry again. “I know that, I know you tried. We all did. And he got what he was coming to him.” Mandy squeezed his hand when he didn’t look at her. “He died alone, Mick, in a rotten alleyway, and they didn’t find him until long after he was gone.”

 _You’re wrong_ , Mickey thought. Only now it didn’t seem like a secret, it seemed like a trap, suffocating him, pressing in and in. _You’re wrong, you’re wrong_ —“You’re wrong,” Mickey gasped. He tried to pull away from Mandy’s grasp—his hands had started sweating—but she held on tight, leaned forward more.

“Mickey, what are you talking about?” Mandy said. “That’s what the police told us.”

Mickey shook his head. “I—I found him.”

Mandy’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I found him. In the alleyway. It was a shortcut to home, I stumbled upon him randomly. He was bleeding, just lying there, and when I arrived . . . when he saw me . . . he started laughing. He said, _there really must be a God up there_. He told me to heal him. He was . . .” Mickey closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. “He was the same old jackass. Cocky. Kept saying he was saved, he was saved. Bless the day he had his baby boy.” Mickey’s stomach was roiling. Mandy didn’t loosen the grip on his hand but gripped it tighter.

“Mickey—”

“He told me some guys who owed him money had shot him rather than pay him. He told me we were going to fuck them up, him and his boy. He held out his hand. God, he was so weak, Mandy. He could hardly speak, he was in so much pain, and yet he couldn’t stop talking. I was shocked, seeing him like that.” Mickey looked up, looked up at Mandy, but she seemed like a statue, frozen with her eyes wide and her mouth open with shock. “I’d always imagined him dying. I’d always _wanted_ it. And here he was, dying, and all I could think was that he was still fighting. I’d always thought he was the most pathetic excuse of life ever, and yet he was still fighting. After two minutes he got impatient. He was fucking dying, bleeding out of his stomach and chest in three places. He started yelling at me to heal him, and I thought. I thought I could fix it, fix everything. How he hurt you and me and our siblings, how he ruined everything—I could fix it, if I didn’t heal him. The one time that I didn’t fix him, didn’t heal him, and _that_ would save us. So I took a step back. He yelled at me, asked me what I was doing. I kept stepping back, and then I turned and left the alley. I could hear him screaming for me to come back, to heal him, but I kept walking.”

“Oh my god,” Mandy whispered.

Mickey licked his lips. “I came home, locked myself in my room. I felt sick. I threw up about three times. The police came four hours later, saying he was dead and if we knew what happened. I played pretend.” Mickey looked up at Mandy, who’d covered her mouth with her other hand. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ I didn’t tell you—”

“You’ve been—you’ve been keeping that in for so long, _Mick_ —” Mandy jumped up from her chair and came over to Mickey. There were tears in her eyes, on her cheeks, and when she hugged him, she sniffled a bit in his ear. Mickey was slightly confused, but he hugged her back, keeping her close.

“I don’t—I should have helped him, Mands, even after all that shit, I basically murdered him—”

Mandy burst out laughing, pushing herself away so she could look at him. “Oh, Mickey,” she said, and this time she didn’t sound so heartbroken. “The last thing you are in this world is a murderer.” Then she punched him in the shoulder. “And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, you jerk!”

“I—I tell you all that and I’m a jerk because I didn’t tell you _before_ —”

“Yes, exactly!” Mandy exclaimed. “Have anything else to admit?”

“Do _you_?” Mickey asked.

They spoke to each other that night like they’d never spoken before—not as though they hadn’t been close before, but definitely not this _deep_. He and Mandy had apparently come to an agreement to never talk about what happened to them because they didn’t want to relive it, only accepting the knowledge that it united them. It didn’t feel like reliving it, as Mandy talked about everything, about boys who hit her and girls who whispered behind her back, as Mickey told her about guys he never got to in fear of losing his life or the dangerous things he sometimes did on runs—the horrible things he did. He told her the truth about their mother’s death, how Mickey had found her dying and she'd made him promise not to heal her. It felt like something was opening up inside of him, breaking open, ripping apart any sense of illusion they might have had about their childhood. Mickey felt numb from everything they would say—they kept switching stories from Mickey to Mandy and back again—and Mandy had to bring over a box of tissues. What they said wrenched at Mickey like he’d never known with his sister, made him wish for his older brothers like he’d never wished before, but he also felt content about his childhood like he never had before. They were being broken open, but once the blackness was released, what came after was a low, crooning song in their mother’s voice.

It felt like healing.

\--

Mickey could feel it now. With Ian this close—pressed against Mickey’s back, arms wrapped tightly around his waist—Mickey could feel the connection between them as though they had strings connecting them by the wrist. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before, if there was something blocking it—if the knowledge of the bond between them helped them find it, or if he had always mistaken the feeling of the bond as love.

Mickey wondered if Ian could feel it at all. Maybe only Mickey could feel it, because it was Mickey’s power that created it, it was Mickey’s power that could go into Ian’s body, if need be. Ian had never commented on it (but then again, when had Mickey ever commented on it?), but Mickey liked to think that Ian could feel the bond between them.

Mickey suddenly wanted to see Ian’s face. He’d have to turn around to be able to see his face, which wasn’t something Mickey particularly wanted to do because Ian would wake up. Then again, Mickey thought, Mickey could draw dicks all over Ian’s body and Ian still wouldn’t wake up, but if Mickey so much as left the bed, Ian would wake immediately.

Mickey thought _fuck it_ and turned over in Ian’s arms. It was like Mickey guessed—Ian didn’t even wake up, just shifted slightly and tightened his arms further around Mickey’s waist, almost to a point of discomfort. Mickey wondered if Ian was aware of his powers unconsciously (Mickey wasn’t—he’d healed Ian overnight many times while he was asleep and woken up sore), because his grip could get so tight around Mickey that he could break a rib or something.

Now Mickey was almost too close to see Ian’s face at all. He could see Ian’s chin and lips, a bit of his nose—Mickey was almost directly in front of Ian’s collarbones. Time to move again. He squirmed a little, trying to move up—holy shit, Ian’s grip on him was fucking tight—and eventually made it so he could see Ian’s face clearly.

It was a weird thing to think, but sometimes he forgot how beautiful Ian was. Seriously. Ian’s lips were parted slightly as he slept, and the sight of them made Mickey want to kiss him so badly it could have hurt. Mickey was thankful for the small amount of light escaping through their windows from the street light, as it allowed Mickey to make out the smallest details. He could see Ian’s eyelashes, much darker now than they ever were in the daylight, and he could also see his eyes moving underneath his lids as he dreamed. Mickey was stunned. He was stunned, floored, just thinking that from the moment Mickey saved Ian, they’d been tied together. They’d been cemented in stone from the very beginning.

To think of every time they’d hung out afterwards made Mickey dizzy. Every time Ian came to Mickey’s dorm to thank him until he’d come to Mickey’s dorm because he’d wanted to had been pushing them further. And they hadn’t even _known_. Mickey hadn’t known on their first date (Ian attempted cooking him pizza himself, which failed a bit miserably, and they’d ended up fucking in Ian’s dorm, so Ian argued that they had to redo their first date because you’re not supposed to fuck on the first date and Mickey hadn’t cared because he hadn’t had a first date in his life and the sex had been amazing), they hadn’t known when they’d celebrated anniversaries, when they’d moved in together . . .

Ian shifted again, sliding his legs through Mickey’s, and loosening his grip on Mickey’s waist (thank god) to fit his hand to Mickey’s hip. “Go to sleep,” Ian muttered, moving his head to Mickey’s collarbone. Mickey pressed a kiss to the top of Ian’s head and allowed himself to fall asleep.

\--

_Mickey rushed into the bathroom, this time glad that the bathroom door couldn’t lock. His mother drew back when the door opened, but when she saw it was Mickey, she relaxed. “I thought you were—” she began, and then composed herself. “Close the goddamn door, Mickey.”_

_Mickey shut the door behind him. “What the fuck happened? Did he hit you?” From what he could see, she didn’t have any bruises. Visible bruises, at least, but Mickey knew the entire Milkovich family had invisible bruises from Terry._

_His mother glared at him. “Mind your fucking business.”_

_“You’re my mother, of course it’s my fucking business,” Mickey snapped. He moved forward to touch her, but she flinched away. Mickey never wanted his mother to flinch at his touch, not like she did at Terry’s, so he stopped. “Ma, did he hit you?” he repeated, gentling his voice._

_She looked away, but she shook her head. “Just scared me, is all.”_

_Mickey didn’t like that either, but then noticed that when he went to touch her again, this time reassuringly, she moved away again, under the pretense of getting her perfume. Mickey was shocked for a moment before he realized that she was purposefully not touching him. He lunged forward and grabbed her hand, and immediately he could feel the pain lacing her body, the way it hurt to breathe. Mickey hissed, pulling away. “He hit you,” Mickey snarled. “He—he broke your fucking ribs—”_

_“Shut up!” she yelled, slamming her hand down on the sink. Mickey felt the anger rise in him._

_“You need to go to a hospital,” Mickey told her._

_“You need to shut the fuck up,” his mother snapped at him. She moved forward like she was going to push past him, but then the door opened, and Mandy entered the bathroom. “God, what is it?” his mother asked, anger deep in her tone. “You two fucking ambushing me everywhere?”_

_Mandy glanced at Mickey, confused. Mickey told her, “He broke her ribs.”_

_Mandy’s face changed, then, into something more determined. “We need to get you to a hospital,” Mandy told their mom, who huffed in frustration and turned her back on them. “We can get rid of Terry, once you tell them what happened.”_

_Their mother turned on them with a snarl of a laugh. “You think they’ll help me? You’re dumber and more naive than I thought, worse than all of them.”_

_Mandy bit her lip, obviously hurt, but she continued on. “Mom, it’s best for everyone, please, just tell them, tell them what a monster he is—”_

_“How about what parasites you are?” their mother screeched, throwing her hands up. “All you children, fucking parasites, needing love and money and food and protection—guess what? You can’t have them all! You can only pick and choose, and since I’m your mother, I chose for you! And you don’t get to be ungrateful fucks about it! Why do I always have to do what’s best for everyone? Why do I always have to sacrifice everything for this family? When will you pick up the fucking slack?”_

_Mandy’s jaw was clenched and angry. They looked like exact mirrors of each other, his sister and his mother. They both had blazing eyes and twisted mouths and snarling teeth and red cheeks from yelling, and their similar features only helped them further. Mandy said, “Fuck you!” and left, slamming the door shut and making the frame rattle._

_Mickey’s mom deflated once the door closed, although her breathing was still heavy and her eyes angry. “Fuck her,” his mother said. “Fuck all of you ungrateful brats, never appreciating what I’ve done to save this family.”_ You? _Mickey wanted to say. You’ve saved them? It was me. It was always me._ You’ve saved us all, Mickey _, that’s what you would tell me. Almost as if proving Mickey’s point, his mother turned to him, snapping her fingers. “Come here,” she said, “and heal my broken bones if you’re so fucking concerned.”_

_When Mickey left the bathroom, his mother’s bruises disappearing and her broken bones healing and Mickey’s heart hurting, he found Mandy sitting on his bed, smoking his cigarettes. Mickey sighed, annoyance picking up, but went inside and didn’t start a confrontation, only picked the cigarette from her lips and jammed it in his own as he sat down next to her. Mandy didn’t even complain, just blew out the rest of her smoke and lifted her eyes to him._

_“You see what he’s doing, don’t you?” she whispered. “He’s turning her against us. She’s always protected us because he was the monster, he was the villain. And he finally figured out how to get her to stop—he made us the monsters.”_

_“Don’t listen to her,” Mickey told her, handing back the cigarette. “We’ll fi—”_

_“Fix this?” Mandy exclaimed. “That’s what you were going to say, right? We’ll fix this?” Mandy shook her head. “That’s mom’s way of thinking, and all it’s done is fuck us over. No. No, Mickey, stop thinking like her. She’s pounded that into your head for too long.” She eyed Mickey as she released some smoke from her nose. “You were always her favorite,” Mandy said. There wasn’t a hint of envy in her voice, just cold indifference. “Darling Mickey, able to fix everything and everyone.”_

_“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey said. He didn’t know why he felt so defensive or angry. Then he realized: he was disappointed. He was disappointed in himself. Mandy was right. He was always trying to fix things, and no one had forced the idea into his head better than his mother. That’s what he’d done right now: he’d fixed his mother instead of forcing her to go to the hospital. “Fuck,” Mickey muttered, scrubbing at his face with his hands._

_Mandy’s hand rubbed at Mickey’s shoulder in comfort, but her cold tone didn’t change. “He’s turning her against us,” she said. “He’s doing it on purpose. God.” Mandy started laughing. “I’ll give Terry credit for that: he knows what he’s doing. He knows what the fuck he’s doing.”_

\--

Mickey woke to Ian shaking him and calling his name, which was rather disorienting. Ian’s finger was digging into Mickey’s shoulder, so Mickey tried to brush his arm away, but that only made Ian more determined. “Mickey, are you okay? What’s wrong?” he kept saying.

“What?” Mickey’s eyes focused on Ian—his eyes were panicked and his brows furrowed. His mouth was unhappy, Mickey could see.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Ian said. “You kept repeating ‘ _hospital_.’ Are you in pain? Do you need to go to a hospital?”

“No,” Mickey said, relaxing back against the pillows. “No, no—it was just a dream. A memory.”

Ian let go of Mickey’s shoulder to brush his hand over Mickey’s cheek, through his hair. “The same stuff that Brainstorm felt?”

Mickey nodded. “They’re mostly about my childhood. My mom . . . she’s in it a lot. I don’t know why. But that’s the reason that I was calling for a hospital. In my memory, my mom was hurt, and Mandy and I wanted her to go.” _He knows what the fuck he’s doing_ , Mandy said. _He’s turning her against us. He knows what he’s doing_. Why did that sound so familiar?

Ian’s thumb stroked the spot right behind Mickey’s ear, making him shiver. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispered.

Mickey turned to glare at Ian for calling him that, but for some reason, Mickey said, “Hospital.” Ian frowned again, a concerned expression crossing his face. _He knew what he was doing_. That was Mickey’s voice this time, although Mickey couldn’t recall when he’d said that. The only thing he could recall was some strange form of sense memory: pain lacing a torso, cuts up and down a body, thin and lithe—

Mickey sat up, Ian’s hand falling away. Ian called for him again, his hand touching the middle of his back, and it was as though Mickey could feel Ian’s worry through the bond. Mickey’s mind was whirling, going in five million directions and yet . . . and yet making connections. Connections that Mickey hadn’t made before, that hadn’t even crossed his mind to make.

“Mandy was right,” Mickey said, although he didn’t feel in control of his mouth. “I never focused on the villain.”

“Mickey,” Ian said. His voice was low and gentle, and he kissed Mickey’s shoulder. He was definitely worried now.

Mickey pushed the covers away and rushed out of the bed, his mouth rambling. “We need to call Mandy—no, Karen, _Karen_ , call her—wait, it doesn’t matter, call them both. I need to call the company—who the fuck is manning the desk at this point? What day is it—” Mickey kept pacing their bedroom, picking clothes at random and pulling them all. “—and while we’re at it, we need to call Lip—” Mickey turned to Ian, who was still on the bed, sheets tangled around his waist, his mouth gaping open in confusion. “And Svetlana! She needs to hear this, she’s the head of the Department—”

“Mick, it’s three in the morning,” Ian said in a slow voice, like he was talking to a kid. “Calm down. It was just a dream, alright?”

“No, no—this isn’t about the dream—” Except it was, wasn’t it? How had he been making connections from his dreams rather than actual logic? And Mandy. Mandy had been making connections from the very beginning, all the important ones that everyone else missed. _He cut out the middleman—_ “Ian, you have to trust me on this. Please, Ian, this could be majorly important. Hugely important. You have to trust me.”

Ian sighed, leaning his head back so that he looked at the ceiling. Mickey knew he was going to agree anyways, because _Mickey_ was asking, but he could tell that Ian was still confused.

“Alright, alright,” Ian said. He moved the covers aside and began to get out of bed. “I’ll listen to your crazy ass.”

Mickey nodded and went into the living room to find his phone, dialing his company’s number. He wasn’t sure who was going to be on duty right now, and he prayed that it wasn’t one of their useless night people. “Hello?” a voice said when they picked up. “How can I help you?”

Mickey sighed in relief. It was Matty. Matty was a smart kid, but he took night shifts because he had university classes during the day. “Matty, it’s Mickey,” he said. “I need your help.”

“Sure, what’s up?” Matty said. “Oh, hope you’re feeling better, by the way. Heard you took a hard crash the other day.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling loads better,” Mickey told him. Mickey was pacing again, and he could hear Ian talking to someone in the other room. “Listen, Matty, I’m going to be coming in.”

There was a slight pause, as if Matty didn’t understand what he just heard. “What?”

“I’m going to be coming in. Karen, too, along with some faces you may not know. I’ll need you to open up the doors when we come in, got it?”

“I—I guess, does Amanda know about this?”

“No, she doesn’t, but I’m not going to be doing anything illegal, fuck,” Mickey said, exasperated. “I’m going to be going over a shit ton of files. Is that alright with you?”

“I . . . I guess, Mickey . . .”

“Perfect. Then I need you to do one more thing for me.”

Matty let out a tiny sigh, and Mickey could imagine him running a hand through his hair. “Sure, what do you need me to do?”

“I need you to pull up every hospital’s records for the past seven months.”

\--

Mickey would almost laugh at the way everyone looked if his brain wasn’t so frazzled and pulled in so many directions. Svetlana looked the same as he’d seen her before: immaculately pulled together and with a slight air of haughtiness, but she was there, so Mickey didn’t mind at all. Lip looked like shit, frankly, as he was in sweatpants and a random t-shirt, his hair in disarray. He was clutching a coffee cup between his hands. Karen and Mandy had their own coffee with them too, and when Mandy saw Mickey, she flipped him off. Matty was standing in the back, looking uncomfortable, but he was the most energetic and awake of them all.

Ian was sitting in Mickey’s chair, spinning slightly, his feet up on Mickey’s desk. Mickey raised an eyebrow at him in disapproval, but Ian just pointed at the time stamp on Mickey’s computer as if saying _you woke me up this early, you can’t say anything_.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you—”

“Oh, god, you’re starting off with that cliche?” Mandy said. “Can’t we just leave?”

“ _No_ ,” Mickey said, glaring at her.

“Why are we here, then?” Lip asked, his voice rough from sleep.

“I’m pretty sure I know shit about this villain,” Mickey said, leaning back against his desk. “Or we can at least figure it out tonight.”

Svetlana leaned forward, definitely more interested than before. “The villain of recent months? What could you possibly know?”

Mickey glanced back at Ian. “If what I’m thinking is correct . . . this villain. They work at a hospital.”

Lip snorted. “A hospital. How could you possibly know that?”

Ian leaned forward, touching Mickey’s back. “Mick, if this is from your dream—”

“Shut up, Ian, I’m serious—”

“You got this from a _dream_?” Karen asked, incredulous. “Are you shitting me, Mickey?”

“Will you all fucking listen to me?” Mickey shouted. Everyone quieted down, thank fuck. “Listen, despite what some of you fuckers think, I have first-hand knowledge of what this villain does. Not only have I healed shit he’s done multiple times, I’ve also been hit myself. So fucking excuse me and listen the fuck up.” He could tell Svetlana was amused by his language, and if he was being honest, all he needed was Svetlana to believe him. “Now, the villain works at a hospital. And no, it’s not just from a dream, I have actual shit to back myself up.”

Karen waved her hand as if to say _go ahead_. Mickey refrained from rolling his eyes and kept going. “The villain has had four main attacks and two side ones. The first one was when they put that pellet in everyone’s body and released the toxin in people’s bodies. The second was when he broke everyone’s bones and left them in a building. Then the villain released the bomb. And the last one was at Amherst Street, when he drained those people of their lives. The two on the side were when he captured Bolt and tortured him, and the second was when he captured Ian, only Ian managed to escape. All of these had to do with hurting people. The villain didn’t steal money, didn’t threaten anybody to pass any legislation—he only _hurt_ people. And take it from the person who healed every single one of those people who were hurt: the villain knew what he was doing. He knew exactly where to cut, exactly where to break the bones . . . He knew what he was doing. And unless the villain really is some type of murderer, I think he has to be a professional at something in that area.”

“So you think he works in a hospital?” Mandy asked.

Lip was chewing on the stir stick while he thought. “If . . . if you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, it could explain how everyone got the pellets inside of them,” Lip said. “That means we’d have to check their medical records, see if they went to a hospital, and had some type of surgery. And the villain just slipped them inside.” Lip grabbed for his bag and took out a sleek black laptop, putting it on his lap and typing away at it.

“There’s more than that,” Mickey said. He felt nervous all of the sudden, like the villain was listening in. He didn’t realize how it all sounded when he said it out loud. “There’s the message that he sent after he captured Bolt. He said that he noticed that Bolt didn’t go to a hospital. Ian—Ian wondered why he would say something like that, but if he worked at a hospital, if he could tell whether or not people came in and out . . .”

“He was expecting Bolt to come in,” Ian said. “He was expecting Bolt to come in and then when he didn’t, he released the message.”

Svetlana turned to Ian, realization dawning on her face. “If what you’re saying is right,” she said to Mickey, “and if Ian is right in his assumption that the villain was expecting Bolt, why couldn’t we say the same for everything he did? What if the villain hurt these people and then expected them to be healed at the hospital?”

“That would mean that it did start out for money,” Lip said, still typing away at his computer. “He hurt people so that it would come back to the hospital and he’d make bank healing them all. You, tech guy—” Lip pointed at Matty, whose eyes went wide. “I want you to look at increases in pay at the hospitals and correlate them with the villain’s attacks.” Matty nodded and went over to a computer.

“Only that didn’t happen, obviously,” Karen said. Everyone looked at her. “Well, Mickey healed them first, didn’t he? He came in before our doctor villain could.”

Everyone went silent at that, and Mickey pressed his lips together, thinking it over. There was something there that kept working at Mickey—Mickey came in before the doctor villain could. What had Mandy said that one time? _When he tortured Bolt, you got involved. When he messed with Ian, you were involved. And then he finally managed to get you all by yourself, without any other hero involved. He cut out the middleman—_

“It’s me,” Mickey said, without meaning to. Everyone turned to him then, except for Matty and Lip, who were busy searching on their computers. “The villain—he’s not doing it for the money. Maybe it started out that way, I don’t know. But he didn’t hurt those people because of that. He hurt them because of me.”

Ian took his feet off the desk and leaned forward, tugging on Mickey’s shirt. “Mickey, what the fuck are you talking about?”

 _You’ve saved us all_ , his mother’s voice said. “The first thing he did, with the toxic pellets. He didn’t expect me to show up and identify anything. I couldn’t heal anything though, so he wasn’t as intrigued by me. But then Bolt happened. He was expecting Bolt at a hospital, but that didn’t happen. Bolt never went to a hospital, and days later he must have been up and running again, as if it never happened. The villain must have realized what happened. He must have realized that there really was a super with the ability to heal. It’s like you said, Mandy. He cut out the middleman, trying to get to me. I think he was trying to test how much I could heal. He tried broken bones and figured out I could heal that. Then he tried a bomb to see how much I could do there: people had burns, objects imbedded in them, collapsed lungs, broken bones . . . there was so much shit to deal with there. And then finally—”

“Amherst Street,” Ian finished, his voice flat. “He wanted to see if you could bring people back from the dead, basically.”

“He was testing me,” Mickey said, voice filling with more conviction. “He was—”

“Why?” Mandy cut in. She ran a tired hand over her mouth. “Why, Mickey? Why would this villain become obsessed with you?”

“I’m taking his job, remember? He’s supposed to be healing everyone, not me. He became obsessed with what I could do.”

“ _Why_?” Mandy insisted. “Why would he be upset that you’re doing his job? What’s happening is still the same: people get hurt, someone heals them, and they get taken to the hospital. Even if you already hurt them, they get taken to the hospital for a check-up, just in case. Why would he give a fuck if you did it instead of him?”

“Because then he’s useless,” Lip said, pausing for a moment.

“But he’s not useless, he’s still hurting the people, he’s still playing the villain—”

“Because he’s normal,” Matty said. “That’s what annoys him, isn’t it? Why should he have to do anything when a hero can do it? He doesn’t just want to be the villain, obviously. He wants to be the hero, too. But by having Mickey heal them all, he’s suddenly normal again. He can’t even be the hero anymore.”

Everyone paused and looked at each other, as if trying to gauge everyone’s reaction to this. Svetlana was eyeing Matty with interest, and when he caught her gaze, his cheeks turned pink. Matty resumed his typing, although his eyes kept flicking up to watch them all.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid! What the fuck is the point of super intelligence if I’m gonna be this stupid?” Lip exclaimed, startling them all. He noticed everyone watching him and explained, “The villain and his logo. It’s a human skull. Jesus, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before!” Lip turned to Svetlana. “What was the first thing he said? The first thing he released to the Department of Heroes after the toxins incident?”

Svetlana went through her phone until she found it. “All the statements that the villain released are the following: ‘poison doesn’t just come from power’ was released after Redwin Street, ‘I notice your favorite fast runner didn’t go to a hospital’ was released after Bolt was captured, ‘Human disaster’ was released after the bomb, and after that, the villain hasn’t said anything else.”

Lip snapped his fingers, pointing at Svetlana. “Don’t you see? He’s been telling us this entire time, he’s been basically rubbing it into our faces!”

“Rubbing what, exactly?” Ian asked.

“The fact that he’s not a super,” Lip said. “Fuck, he’s completely human. Everything he’s done, a regular person could do. A normal person. And he’s been rubbing that in our faces—look what he can do! He doesn’t have any powers, and he has loads of heroes trying to fix the mess he made! How amazing!” Lip shook his head, resuming the typing on his computer. “His fucking messages: poison doesn’t just come from power. _Human disaster_. God, it was so fucking obvious.”

“He’s also trying to draw a line between us,” Ian commented. “The villain’s basically saying that heroes—and supers—aren’t humans.”

“Wait.” Karen turned in her chair and looked to Mickey. “Are you sure the villain’s first incident was with the toxins in the body? Are you sure it wasn’t before that?”

“That was the first time the villain released a statement,” Svetlana said.

“Well, then, it’s the first time the villain _released a statement_ ,” Karen said. “Remember those reports we looked at all those months ago? There was an increase in car crashes, and all the payments were made to the _hospital_. What if that was his first hit?”

Mickey was already moving to his desk the moment she mentioned the car crashes, moving Ian over so that he could access his computer. “The files are already open, like you asked,” Matty told him, so Mickey just searched the hospital and the information came up quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, there was an increase in car crashes eight months ago,” Mickey said, reading over some of the report. “Apparently there had been a crash on a bridge, it started a chain reaction . . . Shit, it went over onto both sides . . .”

“Wait,” Ian interrupted, leaning forward. “The one on Donaldson Bridge?” Mickey nodded. “Mick—I was _there_. They called in the scene, asked us to help out. So many people were trapped inside their cars, and I could get them out by pushing the cars apart or breaking the cars entirely. The people who crashed told me that they hadn’t meant to. They told me that suddenly their car started acting funny, and they couldn’t control it.”

“So, what?” Mandy asked. “How does a villain with no superpower control dozens of cars on a bridge?”

“It’s not like it’s impossible,” Mickey said. “Fiona’s boyfriend and his car company created this installment where you can put your car in autodrive.”

Lip’s typing paused. He looked up at Mickey, the stir stick falling from his mouth when he gaped at Mickey. “Holy shit,” he said. “Holy fucking shit. Steve has an installment in his car that can put people’s cars in autodrive—what if it could do more? What if—”

“What if he’s the villain?” Ian said. He laughed. “I’m sorry, but Steve couldn’t be a villain if he tried. He’s too pathetic.” Mickey snorted.

Lip wasn’t laughing. “It can’t be a coincidence,” he said, focusing back on his computer. He straightened after typing. “Guys, this is fucking strange.”

“What is it? Pathetic Steve really is our villain?”

“No, but I searched for his car company and it doesn’t exist. So then I searched for Steve—and he _doesn’t exist_ ,” Lip said. He looked to Ian, brow furrowed. “Who the fuck is Fiona dating?”

“Can you look up his picture?” Svetlana asked. “ID him that way.”

Lip shrugged. “I can try. I think Fiona has pictures of them, I can hack into her phone.” Mickey heard Ian muttering about needing to secure his phone against Lip’s hacking. Mickey’s fingers were impatient, tapping against the wood of his desk, pressing into his palms, picking at his clothes. He wanted to hold Ian’s hand. “Well, well, well,” Lip said, sounding triumphant. “Steve is none other than Jimmy Lishman.”

Mickey’s fingers paused where they were brushing at his jeans. His head snapped up. “Did you just say Lishman?” He turned to Ian, who was already meeting his gaze, leaning forward and reaching for Mickey. Mickey took his hand. “Ian, where do we—”

“We met him at the magazine party,” Ian said. His eyes were wide, frantic. “Mickey—when we talked, he corrected you—he said to call him _Doctor Lishman_ —”

“Holy fuck,” Mickey said. His body froze, fear spiking him and running over him like a cold wash. “ _We met him?_ We met the villain—”

“He knew who we were,” Ian said. “He had to. That _bastard_.”

Mickey groaned. “Fuck, the first time I talked to Steve—Jimmy—whatever, he told me that his father had bought a couple of the autodrive models.”

Ian stared at Mickey, mouth open, while the clacking of the keyboard signaled what Lip was doing. “Hospital records confirm that Ned Lishman is Jimmy Lishman’s biological father.”

Complete silence descended on the room. Even Matty stopped his typing. It seemed like anyone hardly believed it—everything had connected so suddenly that it almost didn’t seem real. The only sound that could be heard was the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall and the occasional car honk. Here they were: two heroes, four supers, one head of the Department, and one night-shift IT guy, all sitting in a room. They were the only seven people who knew who the villain was.

Matty’s computer dinged. “The increase in hospital visits correlate with the villain’s attacks, as does a pay increase,” was all he said, and then it was quiet again. Ian squeezed Mickey’s hand. Mickey felt like he couldn’t breathe.  

The silence was broken when Svetlana stood up. “We seem to have gotten far tonight,” she said, “but we also have based this on a lot of circumstantial evidence. We can’t just outright arrest Lishman without full proof, although what we’ve gathered tonight is quite . . . a lot.” She looked over to Ian and Mickey. “It seems we’ll have more work to discuss later. We’ll need to figure out a way to catch him in the act.” Svetlana nodded at everyone else, turned on her heel, and left the room. _A way to catch him in the act_ —had Mickey imagined Svetlana looking at him?

Lip shut his laptop. “Does this close the meeting? Can we all go, then?”

Mickey sighed and waved him off, watching as Lip slipped his laptop back into his bag and slung the bag over his shoulder. He touched Ian’s shoulder for a moment on the way out. Mandy and Karen signaled their leave next, Mandy asking, “Couldn’t we have had this mind blowing conversation at a functional time in the morning?” but hugged Ian and Mickey goodbye anyways. Karen said, “Glad to have helped,” and winked at them, wrapping an arm around Mandy’s waist as they walked out. Matty walked Ian and Mickey out, shutting off computers and turning off the lights as they went by.

“Wow,” Matty kept saying. “This was the most interesting night of my _life_.”

“Thanks, Matty,” Mickey said as Matty locked the door. Matty nodded, waving through the glass door, and Mickey and Ian left together.

Ian was silent the entire way home, which worried Mickey more than anything else they discussed that night, but Mickey didn’t ask him about it in fear of the answer. Instead Mickey just held Ian’s hand the entire walk home, appreciating the warmth of his hand in contrast to the chill of the night air.

When they rounded the street to their apartment, Ian’s steps faltered. “Alright,” Mickey said, “what’s bothering you?”

“You have to promise me,” Ian said. He turned to Mickey and looked him straight in the eyes, his voice strong and determined. “I don’t care what the fuck happens, I don't care what Svetlana wants—you have to _promise_ _me_ that you won’t allow yourself to be used as bait to capture Lishman.”

Mickey sighed and looked at Ian’s hands, running his fingers lightly over Ian’s knuckles. “Ian—”

“No. _No_ , Mickey. There won’t be any negotiation on this. You can’t be the bait for Lishman, I won’t allow it.” Ian reached up and touched Mickey’s chin, forcing Mickey to look at him. “Mickey. Please, love. I’ve already lost you once—literally. You’ve already died on me once. I won’t allow that to happen again. I won’t allow anything close to that to happen again, especially not where Lishman is concerned. Promise me, Mick, please. Promise me you won’t be the bait. I will allow anything, _anything_ but that.”

“Shh.” Mickey mirrored Ian’s stance, taking Ian’s chin in his fingers. He made sure Ian was looking him in the eyes. “I promise, Ian. I promise you I won’t.”

Ian released a shaky breath. “Oh, Mick—”

“No. I _promise_ you.” Mickey kissed Ian once, sliding his fingers to the back of Ian’s neck. “I promise,” Mickey whispered, touching their foreheads together. Ian’s fingers grasped at Mickey’s clothes, pulling them together. “I prom—” Ian interrupted him with another kiss, his mouth desperate and strong, and Mickey let their kiss seal his promise, let his hands in Ian’s hair reassure him that Mickey intended to keep it.

\--

“Is this what you always do?” Mickey asked Lip, who was bent over his keyboard. The keyboard connected to about five different computers.

“Stayed behind and kept tabs on everyone? Yes,” Lip said. A red, blinking dot on the screen turned blue. Lip touched his earpiece. “Alright, everyone, Bolt’s arrived on the scene. Get in your positions.”

“I don’t like this,” Mickey said for the thousandth time. “Molly’s fucking twelve, she shouldn’t be volunteering to be cut open by the villain.”

Lip sighed, taking his hand away from the earpiece. “Mickey, how many times do I have to tell you that she’s going to be alright?”

“Five more times would make me feel better,” Mickey muttered.

Lip turned back to the computers, shaking his head, and from the slow way he did it, Mickey knew Lip had rolled his eyes. “Molly has the power to manipulate minds, remember? She’s going to go into the villain’s mind and make him think he’s cutting into her when he’s _physically_ not. Once we have visual evidence of him attempting this, we can arrest him.” Lip frowned at the monitor before typing in a couple more commands. “If something does happen, we have four other heroes on the ready to stop it. And if Molly does get hurt, you’re a block away and easily available to heal her. Please settle down.”

Mickey didn’t settle down. In fact, he might have even started pacing a little faster, just to spite him.

Lip kept talking to the heroes while they waited, sometimes giving them information, sometimes calming them down. One time Lip turned around, saw Mickey, and said, “Yes, Ian, Mickey is still here. Focus, please.” There was one moment where Lip’s voice turned soft, and he told a small story about how he used to play with legos when he was younger, and how he would make elaborate buildings and houses. Mickey closed his eyes and imagined Molly freaking out, panicking, and asking Lip to tell her a story. He imagined all the other heroes listening in and worrying over her, because they were a family of sorts.

Finally, the plan went into action. Estefania’s voice came in from the speaker: “Checkpoint one done with, he took the bait. Going to get into watch position.”

Lip nodded, moving his mouse on the computer to magnify the building. “Alright, Este’s getting into position, guys. Malik, prepare for checkpoint. He should be heading your way in five.”

There was so much tension in the room that Mickey could have taken a knife to it. Eventually Mickey’s own nerves overtook him, and he sat in the seat next to Lip, taking the headphones from their hook and pulling them on. Lip glanced at him, nodding reassuringly, before returning his eyes to the computer screen.

Mickey watched the small orange dot that read _Ian_. He was never the praying type, but he prayed this once. _Bring him back to me. Don’t harm him. Don’t harm any of them._

There was a small click in the headphones before Malik’s voice came in. “Checkpoint number two check in. Tell Molly to be strong, and I’m heading to my watch position.”

Malik’s blue dot began to move, so Lip clicked out of that screen and focused on the building that the villain was being led to and where Molly was waiting. “Molly, Malik says to be strong. You’ve got this.”

“It’s okay, I’m ready. He won’t hurt me,” Molly said, her voice small but determined. Mickey tried not to picture a twelve-year-old Mandy holding Mickey’s hand under her force field and saying _it’s okay, Mick, Terry can’t hurt us under here_.

After another seven tense minutes passed, Ian came on the line, his voice miserable. “Checkpoint number three passed. Getting into position. Tell Mickey I’m okay.”

“Mickey’s listening in,” Lip said. “Alright, Molly. Lishman should be coming in soon.”

Finally, Svetlana’s voice came on. “He just entered the building. I almost can’t believe we’ve caught him.”

Lip pressed on his ear piece. “Everyone in position?”

Everyone confirmed their positions, Malik coming in last, and Lip leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “Then it’s time. Molly, be ready, be safe. Everyone else, eyes at the ready.” Lip’s job was basically over, but his body was still tense, worried. He was like Mickey—he couldn’t stop moving, his body giving off small ticks.

Mickey was pretty good at distractions. “So, Svetlana,” Mickey said. “She can’t just be the head of the Department of Heroes without being a super herself.”

Lip glanced at him, his eyebrow raised. “You’d be right,” Lip said, turning his face back to the screens. “She’s a super.”

“Don’t leave me in the dark, what is it?”

“Maybe if you were an actual hero, you’d deserve to know.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at the screen. The purple dot that read _Molly_ was completely still, while every other dot was pacing in some form. Mickey thought about her and wanted to rush into the building and punch Lishman in the fucking face, but this was the plan and he was abiding by it. He hated how Molly was the bait, but he kept his promise to Ian, and Molly was the only one who could escape this unscathed while making Lishman believe he was actually doing harm.

The intercom crackled, causing Lip to lean forward in anticipation. Molly’s voice came on the air. “It’s over,” she said. “He’s—he’s done it.”

Mickey exhaled, closing his eyes and putting his head in his hands, relief washing over him. Lip snatched up the microphone. “Everyone close in and arrest Lishman,” Lip said, slightly breathless. Mickey recognized the breathlessness from relief, too. “Molly, get out of there the minute those handcuffs are on him. We’re heading in.”

Lip took his headphones off and grabbed a smaller earbud, placing it in his ear. He hooked a tiny black microphone to his shirt and nodded at Mickey. “Let’s go,” he said. “All my job is now is relaying messages back and forth.”

It was a bit strange to walk with Lip and have Lip randomly say, “Malik, Estefania says to shut the fuck up,” but mostly Mickey enjoyed it. He and Lip had been positioned a block away, but they couldn’t get there quickly enough. There was a crowd of people milling about the building that they’d set everything up, all of the people intrigued as to why a group of weapon-clad people rushed into a building. Lip and Mickey pushed their way through, finally getting to the doors and talking to the guards outside of them. When they were let inside, it felt as though there were just as many people in the lobby as there were outside. Mickey and Lip tried to look over everyone’s heads, Lip saying into the microphone, “Molly, you’ll need to give a report later—”

“Mickey!” Ian came through the crowd, taller than most people there, and Mickey felt his heart beat quicker. Ian rushed over to him, smiling, and when he met Mickey, he picked Mickey up and kissed him. “Holy fuck, it’s over,” he said, pressing another kiss to Mickey’s cheek and chin. He let Mickey down after another kiss and then went to hug Lip.

Mickey kept an eye on Ian during the entire thing. Svetlana came over to Mickey once—she actually hugged him, thanking him for his initial knowledge on the villain, but then whispered in his ear, “We still have to talk.” Mickey nodded when they pulled apart, positive that she’d only come over to intimidate him.

Molly came over to him—barrelled into him would be a better description. He caught her, stumbling back a little, but her arms were wrapped tight about his waist. She said something he couldn’t hear over everyone else’s noise, so he leaned down. “What was that?”

 _Can you heal my brain?_ she thought to him.

Mickey frowned, touching her temple. Besides a slight scratch or two, there was nothing wrong. “Are you hurt?” he asked, confused.

 _He was scary_ , she said. _I didn’t like being inside his brain. I could see what he was doing to me. I don’t like it._

“I can’t fix that,” Mickey said, brushing some of her hair back. “Maybe with a good memory?”

Molly nodded eagerly. Mickey paused, unsure what to show her, so he opened up the night that Karen proposed to Mandy: showed her Karen acting nervous, showed how she’d looked at his sister, showed the moment Karen actually proposed. He opened up the feeling of hugging his sister, hugging Karen, showed her the words they’d all exchanged, and allowed her to feel how happy he’d felt that night. He even allowed her to see him and Ian walking home, talking of their happiness, and ended it with Ian kissing him, and when Mickey closed the memory, he was left with a lingering feeling of joy and love. Molly smiled up at him. _Thank you_ , she said, touching his cheek softly, and then she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Finally Lishman was brought down in handcuffs, a squad of Department people surrounding him, and Svetlana walked out right behind them. When Lishman saw Mickey, he sneered, struggling against his handcuffs for a moment, but then an officer was pulling him back and speaking harshly in Lishman’s ear. Lishman disappeared outside, and Mickey felt like he could breathe.

Ian reached out, grabbed Mickey’s arm. Mickey let himself disappear into the bond and feel the love and relief there. He turned to Ian. “Let’s go home,” he said, pulling Ian closer, and grinned into Ian’s kiss.

\--

When Mickey’s watch hit ten-thirty, Mickey sat down on the rooftop and pulled the Red Vines package out of his pack, ripping it open and picking out a licorice to eat. Lip buzzed in his ear, saying, “Mickey, you’re off duty.”

“Already ahead of you there, Q.” Ever since Mickey agreed to become a hero and had gotten used to Lip being in his ear constantly, he’d started calling Lip “Q.” Lip always scowled at the name, which made it all the better for Mickey. “Who’s taking over for me tonight?”

“Bruiser. She’s about to meet you in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .” _One_ , Mickey finished, and at that moment, a knife flew over the roof, hitting Mickey’s licorice bag.

“You missed,” Mickey called out.

Estefania appeared over the roof, hair whipping around her face. “I didn’t miss—I got the candy, yes?” She walked over to him, picking her knife back up and taking some Red Vines. Mickey snatched the bag away from her, causing her to laugh as she slipped the knife back into one of her holsters.

“Bolt and Brainstorm will be there soon,” Lip reported. “Ian says he’s gonna be there as quickly as possible.”

“Boring night tonight?” Estefania asked, leaning against the ledge of the roof.

“Basically,” Mickey said. “I had a twelve year old try to steal from a liquor store, but that was stopped easily. Otherwise tonight was like a workout.”

Estefania nodded. “I hate to say it, but at least villain’s make life interesting for us. Otherwise we’re stuck to nights like this, stopping pimply-faced kids from stealing a cigarette pack.”

Mickey laughed. “It’s also a kind of relief, don’t you feel? It’s nice to scare a pimply-faced kid every once in a while.”

“Very true.” When Estefania smiled, it almost looked like she was baring her teeth. She glanced over the ledge. “Oh, here comes Bolt and Brainstorm.”

Malik flashed onto the roof, carrying Molly in his arms. She was laughing, squirming in his arms until he let her go. She landed lightly on her feet. Mickey felt something whisper past his mind for a moment before disappearing. “Mickey has candy,” was the first thing Molly said.

“Well, don’t hold out on us,” Malik said, grinning.

Mickey raised an eyebrow and clutched the Red Vines to his chest. “These are mine.”

Of course, he should have known that Malik would take that as a challenge, because he flipped Molly a thumbs-up and raced at Mickey, grabbing the Red Vines from Mickey’s arms quicker than Mickey could even protest. When he stopped, he was standing by Molly, holding out the licorice while he chewed on himself.

“Assholes,” Mickey called out, flipping them off.

“Not in front of Molly, damn it,” Estefania said, leaning back on her elbows. Both Molly and Mickey laughed.

“What has Mickey done this time?” Ian’s voice said. Ian jumped down from the ledge, landing near Estefania. She jumped back for a moment and reflexively reached for her knives, relaxing when he bumped shoulders with her.

“He’s not sharing his candy,” Malik said. “You should instill some manners in him, Ian.”

Ian snorted. “As if I could make Mickey do anything like that,” he said, taking some Red Vines for himself.

“I hate you all. I’m the one off duty, so I should be able to eat the candy,” Mickey said.

“I’m off duty too!” Molly said, smiling. “Hand them over!”

Lip buzzed in their ear again. “Guys, I’ve got a couple of police signals. They’ve been called over to Hemsworth Ave.”

All the heroes looked at each other, deciding who would go. Mickey raised his hands up, reminding them that they couldn’t pick him because he wasn’t on duty. Estefania and Malik began arguing about who should go, as Malik could get there quicker but Estefania’s skills might be needed, when Molly started giggling.

“What is it?” Estefania asked, running her fingers through Molly’s hair.

Molly glanced over at Ian, still laughing. “Ian wants to be alone with Mickey right now.”

“Molly,” Ian said, exasperated, but he was smiling. Malik wrinkled his nose, causing Ian to laugh. “It’s not like that! I just want to talk.”

“Sureeee you do, Ian,” Malik teased. “It’s alright, I get it. The suit _is_ rather fetching on him.” Mickey flipped Malik off again. “Alright, Este and I will head over to chat with the police, I guess. Or fight them. It may be the highlight of my night. Molly, you need another ride?”

“You can just take me over to Harroway Street, then I’ll be good,” Molly said.

Malik picked her up and made sure Estefania was ready. When he saw that she was, he tossed the candy back at Mickey’s feet and raced off with a “Goodbye, love birds,” Molly’s giggling disappearing into the wind.

Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ian. “Really? Molly could hear your thoughts about me?”

Ian laughed, walking over to him. “It wasn’t like that!” he insisted. “It’s not like I was having explicit thoughts about fucking you. I’m just pretty sure all my thoughts were focused on you.” Ian paused, holding his hand out for Mickey to take. “I may have thought that I wanted to be alone with you, but it wasn’t for sex. I wouldn’t traumatize Molly like that.”

Mickey laughed, the laugh fading when Ian pulled him up. Ian pushed him against the ledge. “Careful,” Mickey said, voice low and breathless. “Wouldn’t want me to fall over the ledge and fall off the roof.”

Ian chuckled. “I’ve got you,” he said. “Why, don’t you trust me?”

“Literally . . . with my life,” Mickey said. Ian groaned, hiding his face in Mickey’s neck.

“Stupid ass bond,” Ian said, voice muffled in Mickey’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, complain a little louder, will you?” Mickey kissed the side of Ian’s head. “So, what’d you want me alone for?”

“What?” Ian lifted his head so he could look Mickey in the eyes. “Oh, that? There wasn’t a particular reason—I was just thinking that you’re getting off duty right when I’m getting on, so I wanted a moment alone.”

“And that’s not a particular reason?” Mickey asked. Ian pinched him hard on the side, making Mickey yelp. “Asshole,” Mickey muttered, but it was lost under Ian’s lips. Mickey made a surprised noise against Ian’s lips but recovered quickly, running his hands up and through Ian’s hair. Mickey made a frustrated noise against Ian’s mouth when he met the edges of Ian’s mask, but Ian responded by pushing a thigh between Mickey’s legs. Ian’s thumb grazed right under Mickey’s jawline, and from the way Mickey was rubbing against Ian’s thigh, he was pretty sure that Ian wasn’t going to be on duty tonight at all.

“You two do realize the mic is still on, right? I hate hearing noises,” Lip said in their ears.

Ian pulled away with a laugh, pressing his lips to Mickey’s forehead. “You do know that you can just cut our mics off, right, Lip? Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

“Funny. Malik contacted me, said he needed some strength on his side. You’re needed, Ian.”

Ian sighed, kissing Mickey’s forehead again before kissing Mickey firmly on the mouth. Mickey was reluctant to let go of Ian, and he settled for grasping on the edge of Ian’s suit instead. “I’ll see you at home?”

Mickey kissed Ian, biting on his bottom lip softly. Ian’s fingers tightened on Mickey’s waist. “Yeah,” Mickey breathed out. “And you’ll have to run around the city, imagining me in bed.”

“ _Guys_ ,” Lip’s voice cut in.

Ian pressed his lips together to hide a smile as Mickey said, “Fuck off, Quartermaster.” Lip huffed over the line but cut it off one more time.

“Yeah, I’ll see you at home,” Mickey said to Ian, releasing Ian’s suit and picking up his bag. “I’ll leave a light on.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Ian said, laughing.

Mickey picked up the Red Vines bag. “Go fuck off and save the world.” Ian nodded, turning to go, but then whipped back around and kissed Mickey hard on the mouth.

“Alright, now I’m good,” Ian said, grinning. God, Mickey wanted him to stay, wanted to press his mouth everywhere and strip Ian of his suit, but he settled for leaning against the ledge, breathless from Ian’s kisses, and watching Ian walk across the roof.

“Stay safe!” Mickey called out. Ian waved his hand in acknowledgement and lept off the roof.

Mickey took the rest of his stuff and jumped off the roof onto another building, heading in the direction of his apartment. The moon was full tonight, and their bed was calling his name. He imagined waking up in the morning with Ian next to him—actually, Mickey would probably wake when Ian came to bed—and smiled. Ian would probably sleep in until it's three in the afternoon, but Mickey would allow it. As long as Ian was awake to come looking at wedding dresses with Mickey, Mandy, and Karen, then he would be fine. 

Lip cut back onto the line. “Fuck.”

“Problem, Q?”

“Fuck you. Ian wants me to tell you that he loves you and to contact me when you get home.”

Mickey’s smile turned into a grin. “Tell him I love him, too.” Mickey climbed down a fire escape and landed in an alley. He felt through the bond once, felt Ian safe—there was a small, leftover feeling of warmth from when Lip relayed Mickey’s message—and then Mickey took off into the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> eximologist is a word that i made up for this fic. it comes from the latin word for super ("eximius"), and i added an -ologist so that they became a person who studied powers. "miy khlopchyk" means "my boy" in ukranian, while "kokhana" means "sweetheart"
> 
> besides the george foreman quote, every single quote, title name for each of the four parts, and the name of the fic, comes from the song [Superpower by Beyonce and Frank Ocean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQBMQ_2x8Pc). the song fit way too perfectly into my fic, and i listened to it for motivation


End file.
